I Know How To Save You
by Maevenly
Summary: AU & EWE: A story brought over from Granger Enchanted. They want her, but they've never been able to capture her. Since 5th Year, The Unspeakables have had Hermione Granger on the top of their Fetch List. Now, because of Ron, 'Recuiter' Aenas Hollins has Hermione within his grasp. When Hermione saved the Malfoys in 1997, who knew that they'd be able to save her seven years later.
1. Chapter 1

This story was originally published on Granger Enchanted. I am bringing it over to fan fiction dot net, in hopes that someone here might enjoy it.

This is definitely an AU story: Snape lives, Malfoys are 'good', Ron is a bastard, back-handed Ginny bashing, and a slightly talkative Marcus Flint.

THAT BEING SAID: don't 'slam' me for writing an AU story, with an AU premise, with an EWE ending.

This is a fun, lighthearted, story, which was written as a gift for the amazing HP authoress Savva.

THANK YOU!

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 _Ides of April, 1997_

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom_

.

.

"I know how to save you."

Six words.

That's all it took for Draco to lift his shoulders from where he'd hunched over the sink in the boys' lav – he really needed to find somewhere else to vent his frustration or at least learn to shove Crabbe at Moaning Myrtle so that the sex-happy, whiny-ass, perma-virgin ghost wouldn't sell him out to every Potter, Snape and Granger – and really look at the witch who'd just made sure that they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted.

 _I know how to save you_.

Six words that hadn't come from his mother's mouth or by an owl delivering one of Lucius' once-a-month-live-from-Azkaban letters, or passed to him by a world wary and war weary godfather.

Every single adult in his life had told him that the blackest-green tattoo on his arm was permanent; a permanent fixture to his soul, his magic, his mind, and his body; the physical embodiment of his Lord's everlasting commitment to him.

Yet, a seventeen year-old Mudblood, one known for her cleverness and resourcefulness, had the audacity to offer him hope in the form of six single-syllable words: _I know how to save you._

"Fuck off before I fucking hurt you." He glared at her reflection. "Don't think that I won't."

She shook her head. She fixed her gaze on him and ignored his crude attempt at a dismissal and half-assed threat.

"It's true. Harry's the one who gave me the idea. Well, not Harry _directly._ There was a _fair_ bit of inspiration from when I modified the Protean charm last year…"

Draco snorted and sneered at the mention of the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Stop-Fucking-Up-Other-People's-Lives. "Always comes down to fucking Potter with you, doesn't it?"

"Are you done being foul? Because I can go; I don't have to tell you anything." Ever the bossy swot, she waved her hand at the door. The one he'd watched her barricade with spells that didn't appear in any Sixth or Seventh year text book that Draco had ever read, or Restricted tome that resided on his godfather's personal reference shelf, or Ministry-banned manuscript tucked away in the vast and expansive Malfoy Archives.

She crossed one arm across her body while her other hand bracketed her hip. She looked up at him through a framework of thick eyelashes, barely-there freckles, loose curls, and delicate features. Her challenge delivered – him to shut up or she would leave - she was the epitome of hesitant confidence.

"I just thought you'd like to know that there's actually a way…" She paused, her thought process halted as she searched for the right words to say and the right words, more importantly, not to say. "You don't have to be… _his_."

 _His_ … _Voldemort's_. The snake-faced rat-bastard that forced his Mark on his pristine Malfoy flesh within hours of The-Thing-Who-Used-to-be-Riddle defeat in the atrium at the Ministry.

Draco wanted to clap his hand over the snake-and-skull etched into his skin… He wanted to pretend that he hadn't screamed, writhed, and cried out in pain as his two psychotic 'uncles', Rabastan and Rodolphus, held him down by his shoulders while his even more bat-shit-crazy-zealous-is-an-understatement Aunt Bellatrix used her Cursed knife to slice apart the sleeve of his school shirt so that her Lord – and now his – could brand him as 'compensation' for Lucius' incarceration. The symbolism – and Voldemort loved his symbols, no fucking surprise there – of his rendered school shirt at the hands of those who'd now dictate the parameters of his new life wasn't lost on him then or now. _Happy fucking graduation to me; silver masks and Death Eaters' robes are the 'new' cap-and-gown._

But Malfoys didn't beg. Malfoys didn't plead. They fucking sucked it up – whatever 'it' of the moment was – and played things smart until Opportunity presented itself.

Course, with his bloody fucking luck, Opportunity wore tiny-ass Mary Janes and a Gryffindor tie. But, when Opportunity speaks…

Not that he wasn't above giving Opportunity a two-fingered salute just because he could.

Which was why he turned, faced her, and placed both hands behind him, flexing his fingers on edge of the aged porcelain sink. "Who are you to suppose that I have his Mark?"

She scoffed – out loud - at him!

"Anyone with two brain cells to rub together, that's who!" She struggled with her temper. Her sudden switch to mirth really pissed him off. "You really think that no one knows? Gods, Malfoy, I knew you were arrogant, but really?!"

He moved towards her. The proven capability of the witch and the pointy end of her wand aimed at his still healing chest, the same chest Potter had sliced to ribbons not six days ago, had him stopping five feet from where she stood.

He arched a haughty eyebrow at the length of carved vinewood primed with a yet-to-be-released spell.

"Go ahead. Do it." He leaned forward so that there were only four feet between their two noses. His lip curled nastily. "If you can."

She leaned forward.

Now there were only three feet between their noses.

She matched his derisiveness with honest self-assessment. There was no more hesitancy to her confidence.

"You'll learn, Malfoy, that there are _a_ _lot_ of things I can do."

.

Draco poured three more fingers of Ogden's Black Label into his glass. His godfather had finished his first glassful long before Draco finished recounting the discussion between himself and Granger. The older man had long drifted into introspection. Draco didn't have the heart to separate the man from his brooding.

He resettled into the other chair in Uncle Severus' lounge. The Potions Master's quarters at Hogwarts were comfortable. As they should be. The man had been living in the same bedroom, WC, lounge, and study-cum-library for more than ten years.

Once his godfather's eyes shifted from staring at the flames in the hearth to actually seeing him, was when Draco offered his apology.

"For what it's worth: I'm sorry. I asked her. Hell, I _ordered_ her! She said, each and every time that I screamed at her, yelled at her, attempted to bribe her or politely requested that she include you, that what'll work for me won't work for you." He closed his eyes for a moment and for both their sakes streamlined the GryffinSwot's hour-long dissertation. "Despite being wand-bonded to Father, and that the Prince line is as magically potent as the Malfoy family line, the spell is _patriarchal_. If the spell were _matriarchal_ , then she'd be able to perform a separate ceremony for you." He needed another mouthful of liquor to swallow down his guilty feelings. "If it's any consolation, Granger said that even magic has some rules that can't be bent, twisted, or broken. She truly sounded… _irked…_ about that."

Snape didn't bother with shaking his head or acknowledging the fact that Draco's salvation didn't – couldn't – include him. Instead, he picked up his glass and peered at the emptiness therein. He then stood, walked over to the side table topped with decanters, and tipped more finely aged brandy into his stemless cut-crystal.

"Don't concern yourself with what cannot be, Draco." He hefted the glass, tilting the brandy in the firelight, and spoke to him over the rim. "As you can see – my glass is half-full."

Draco rolled his eyes at the way his godfather offered him ass-backwards absolution. Considering the almost wry twist to the man's nearly non-existent lips, apparently Voldemort wasn't the only one with a penchant for fucked-up symbolism.

"How?"

Snape came as close as ever to actually smiling. It was really rather fucking creepy the way those thin lips exposed the very tips of his yellow, crooked, teeth. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

"Let's just pray that that's one conversation we'll never have to share, shall we?" Draco didn't want to think about what the circumstances would be where Severus Snape would come face-to-face with a Grim Reaper. It did make him feel somewhat mollified that, somehow, Snape, along with all the Malfoys, would survive the war. A sudden flash of insight had him nearly flinging his glass into the wall. "Granger got to you too, didn't she?!"

Snape's almost-smile warped into a fierce glare. The tall man marched to where Draco sat. He leaned down, the tip of his hooked nose mere inches from the center of Draco's chin.

"You'll do well, _boy_ , to banish that thought." The fire in the grate flared as his godfather's emotions spiked. "For her sake as well as mine: if you can't forget what you've just surmised, I won't hesitate to _take_ _it_ _from_ _you_."

Draco didn't know why he spoke impulsively. As if his cagey godfather, the one wizard cagier than Lucius Malfoy, would ever place himself on equal-footing as an almost seventeen year-old. Not to mention that forced Obliviation wasn't on Draco's list of things he wanted to experience. _Then again,_ he snarked to himself, _I'd never know if I'd been Obliviated, would I?_

Properly cowed, Draco didn't resent Severus' intimidation. Their respective – him, his parents, and his godfather's – situations were dire. He was man-enough, wizard-enough, to acknowledge that Granger's proposal was the escape-clause that he'd been told didn't exist. _I know how to save you_ , indeed. For him to jeopardize that by not taking the GryffChit up on her offer would be to admit that he, his magic, his life, his _family_ , belonged to Voldemort.

Fuck. That.

He was a Malfoy. A Malfoy was beholden to himself, his name, his Pater, his wife, and the Old Ones.

That didn't mean that he didn't want verification. That's why he came to his godfather in the first place – after spending three days surreptitiously researching the girl's claims. He couldn't tell his Uncle Severus what the Noseless One wanted him to do, the two tasks he'd yet to accomplish. But, he needed to know if Granger was telling the truth. Not that she'd lie – not about something like this. But, still, he'd be a fool not to double-check. And a Malfoy was never a fool. A Malfoy could act foolishly, and had. Lucius binding himself, and by extension Draco and Narcissa as Lucius was Pater when Lucius took the Mark, to Voldemort was foolish. Draco's ongoing feud with Potter was foolish. Underestimating Granger was foolish. He, Draco Malfoy, was determined to make sure he wasn't labeled as the first Fool on the Malfoy family tree.

He re-introduced the reason why he'd shown up at his every-way-that-counted Uncle's door.

"Is she right? What she's proposing? Would it work?"

Severus sat in his chair. He crossed his ankle across his knee; his glass he cradled loosely in his hands. Thankfully his Uncle didn't call him out on the fact that he, Draco, had a moment where he was simply a teenaged boy who was in way over his head in every possibly way.

"Tell me again what she said."

Draco recalled every word she'd said to him in that lavatory, and then paraphrased it. "She said it was a variation on the resurrection spell… _he…_ and Pettigrew used two years ago. Bones of a father, blood of an enemy, gift from a servant – _that_ spell. But with different…ingredients…and intentions."

"Yes…," the older wizard drawled. He extrapolated Granger's assertions. "Intentions of the caster would change the nature of the spell as well as influence the properties sustained within the required ingredients and corresponding chants. The impacts would thus facilitate the changes to the very nature of the resulting potion while achieving the same…but diametrically different…end result." Snape's expression became very shrewd. His eyebrows sloped low over the inner corners of his eyes, any trace of the Lecturing Intellectual aspect of his personality instantly erased. "Did she ask for anything? Make her help contingent on you doing something her, for Potter? Extract any Vow from you?"

"No," Draco shook his head. "She asked for nothing." He remembered his skepticism when she said she didn't want anything from him in exchange for her…help. "I asked her three times. Every time I asked her for her conditions, she said that she didn't have any. I didn't believe her."

He took a swig from his glass. He swished the liquor around his teeth, grimacing as the fermented beverage clawed at his tongue and gums.

"I still don't." Hand nearly level to his mouth, it was his turn to look at the Potions Master over the rim of his glass. "Unless you tell me otherwise."

"Anyone who makes an offer and doesn't ask for anything shouldn't be trusted." Snape matched his grimace with one of his own. That is, until he back-pedaled. His expression softened to that of a man who'd recently come to an unexpected but not unwelcomed realization. "Except when it comes to her."

"Contradict yourself much?" Draco groused. He didn't appreciate his uncle's exercise in double standards.

Again, that almost-smile on his godfather's face creeped him out to no end.

"When you're older, you'll realize that there are people in this world who are walking, talking, paradoxes." Snape leaned back, his posture relaxed. Hell, the man even took a nice long pull on his glass. He savored what he'd swallowed before explaining the reason for his earlier question. "If she'd asked for anything, set any conditions, then the spell won't work; she'd be offering you an empty promise."

Draco could've sworn that Snape was speaking from personal experience.

"Did she tell you why she was doing this?" Severus asked.

Draco nodded, his thoughts centered on what her offer, now that he knew that it was real and not some school-yard scroll-happy eyes-bigger-than-my-spell-book fantasy, truly meant.

"She said that I didn't deserve to die. Though I be a, 'selfish, arrogant, foul, loathsome, evil-little-cockroach', I didn't deserve to die for sins that stemmed from the hubris of others or because of my own personality drawbacks." He chuckled ruefully, his eyes fixed on the fireplace and only seeing her as she used all of her fingers to list his flaws.

If she only knew how correct and how wrong she was about him.

"I'm not without blame." He'd rolled his eyes at her when she lectured him the first time, three days ago. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and spoke to the upper corners of his godfather's lounge as he paraphrased her lecture. "She said that we all reach an 'Age of Accountability': a point in our lives where our actions are our own rather than the learned behaviors of those around us, and that from here on out, I was 'on notice' that I'd crossed that threshold. But, and she repeated this: I didn't deserve to die because of other people's perceptions and resulting life choices."

So focused on his memory of the petite witch, he only half-heard his godfather muttering something about Dumbledore backing the wrong horse. Whatever the hell that meant, Merlin only knew.

"So, I should do this?"

"Yes. You should, Draco." He swirled his drink but didn't lift his glass to his lips. "When did Miss Granger say this is to occur?"

"At Beltane."

"You'll have just under two weeks to prepare."

"Granger seemed confident that there'd be enough time."

Severus inhaled the rest of his drink with two swift swallows. The glass he set on the side table next to his chair. The man propped his elbows on the armrest of his chair and steepled his fingers. He matched Draco's intense study of the well-lit fire.

It was a while before either one of them spoke. It was his godfather who broke their shared silence.

"You realize you can't call her 'Princess' anymore."

Draco smirked. For a few years now, he'd referred to Potter's best female friend as Gryffindor's Princess. He felt a bit of pride that even the staff at Hogwarts had taken a shine to Granger's Malfoy-given nickname.

But, his godfather was right. His smirk retracted into something more contemplative. And, as much as he liked the sneer that underscored the title 'Princess' when directed at Granger, he couldn't bring himself to even think of that nickname any more, let alone say it out loud.

"No. I can't." Draco slumped a bit in the large wing-backed chair. The coziness of the hearth, the newly discovered camaraderie between him and his godfather, and the Ogden's in his bloodstream made him as introspective as his Uncle.

"Do you know the function of a Valkyrie, Draco?"

Snape answered his own question for both of them. Not before wandlessly and wordlessly Summoning two decanters, one with fire-whiskey and the other one with brandy.

"The most basic – and grossly simplistic – definition of a Valkyrie: a female warrior who decides who lives and who dies."

Draco agreed with his godfather the only way he could: he up-ended the base of his decanter. Before taking a drink, he sighed.

"Yeah – but 'Valkyrie' doesn't roll off the tongue the same way, Uncle."

.

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This story was originally published as a one-shot; all 21400 words in one-go. Here, I've broken it up; not my favorite format, but I'm trying to be considerate *smile* to those who might find 21400 a bit daunting to read all at one time.


	2. Chapter 2

_July 1998 - Fourteen Months Later…_

 _Ministry of Magic, Courtroom Eleven_

 _._

Call him shallow. Call him self-serving. Call him a photo-whore.

Ron Weasley loved having his picture taken. He loved answering questions from the press and fans. He loved flashing his smile at all the pretty, and not so pretty, witches that wanted to be with him. He preened when clapped on the back by all the wizards who did everything they could to be like him.

It was about time he had his time in the sun and he loved keeping up his tan. Due to deliberate over-exposure, his skin was, metaphorically, the most 'golden' of the Golden Trio.

As George had pointed out, when his older brother had cussed him out last month, flashbulbs will do that. As would impromptu quickies in alleyways. As would long, drawn out al-fresco encounters at villas and estates on both sides of the British Channel.

Who was he to deny his partners, the reporters, the hangers-on, what they wanted? He'd been there; he knew how it felt to want something that was just out-of-reach, or, as in most things in his life, forever out of his reach. Why shouldn't he give them something that only he could give?

After all, it wasn't like he was cheating on Hermione. Or prostituting what he, Harry, and Hermione had gone through. He always came home, didn't he? How could he be called a bad boyfriend? How could he be called a bad friend? How could anyone think anything bad of him – especially when all his 'good will' only gave him more face-time in the press, in pictures, and in the beds of those who wanted him. If it were up to him, he'd say he deserved the title "1998's Most Charitable Wizard'.

Which was why, a day and a half later, he was still standing as close as he could, along with all the others who wanted access but were denied, to where his girlfriend and best friend had been escorted into a closed Courtroom Eleven the day before, amid a cacophony of questions shouted by reporters and photographers snapping pictures as quickly as their shutters allowed, all in an attempt to find out what was going on behind the sealed doors.

In Ron's view, aside from the fact that he was jealous and irate over the fact that he hadn't been asked to provide testimony – even though he'd offered to share his memories once he found out that no one would be privy to the details surrounding the deliberations as to the Malfoys' guilt or innocence – someone had to handle the assembled throng. And seeing as he had the most experience, naturally the duty should fall on him. Especially since the crowd had grown since yesterday.

Buried in the midst of the crowd stood Lavender Brown.

Ron made eye-contact with her as she held up this week's copy of Teen Witch Weekly. The front cover had a small picture of him in the bottom left corner. She peeled back the cover. The next thing he saw was a page from the Delicious Witch lingerie catalog.

If Greyback wasn't such a monster, he'd send the werewolf a box of Chocolate Frogs.

After all, it was due to Lavender's partial Lycanthropy that she was an even better lay than when they'd been in school. Before, he'd have to go to her; he'd have to make sure he paid due-diligence to preliminaries – un-necessary if anyone asked him because a bloke is always up for a poke – before getting on with it. Now, she came to him. He could bend her like a pretzel, finish, and not have to worry about finishing her. Lavender's wolfish tendencies made her all nails, teeth, and _pouncy_ ; all he had to do was work her up a bit, then lay back and let her do all the work as she used him to tire herself out.

Not a bad way to spend some time when he wasn't with someone else.

And, because she came to him, it wasn't like he was cheating on Hermione.

Gah, would that witch ever give it up?

He'd become so adept at answering the questions hurled at him, he didn't even have to think of an answer – because he already had one. It's not like any of these witches or wizards asked him anything original or something that couldn't be side-stepped by a smile, a wink, or the side-step of all side-steps, "Did I tell you about the time I speared Slytherin's locket with the Sword of Gryffindor?"

Hermione hadn't even let him feel her up; how was he supposed to know if she had something that would appeal to him if he couldn't see it or touch it? That got him a right nasty hex – to the bottom of his feet! At first, he was relieved that she hadn't damaged his tackle. But then, he realized how much worse it was to have the equivalent of a blistery sun-burn on the soles of his feet. SO much worse! There were numbing charms for soft-tissue damage and after the first couple of sessions with Lavender had left his privates so tender, sore, and chafed, he'd learned to use a lube that included murtlap. But a sunburn? There's nothing that could be done to make that heal faster. Burn paste just stained his socks orange and rubbed-off as he walked – he'd know, because that was the first thing he'd tried. Then, he'd tried numbing charms, thinking those would work. No such luck. The skin on the bottom of the feet is thicker and more resilient than the rest of the body – and the bloody witch knew that when she'd hexed him! He'd had to stay home for five whole days while his feet healed. He missed a radio interview and the unveiling of Fortescue's newest ice-cream flavor!

Then, two hours after Hermione'd hexed him, Harry appeared. Ron opened his door, Harry lifted his wand, said something about 'teach you to stop talking shite', then Harry hexed him, and then Harry Apperated. The next thing he knew, his breath smelled and tasted like crap. Literally. No matter how often he brushed his teeth or chugged mouthwash or lapped at tooth powder or cast freshening charms on every inch of his mouth, his breath still smelled and tasted like crap.

Thankfully, Harry's hex wore off before Hermione's did.

And, yes – he apologized to Hermione. And, he took her out to dinner. And, he danced with her. And, it was lovely seeing their oh-so-romantic-no-one-knows-where-we-are date plastered all over Teen Witch Weekly, Witch Weekly, The Daily Prophet, and Wizards' Whirl magazine, for the nearly a month. Hermione's pale-peach, knee-length dress really brought out the blue in his eyes. And the shorter, tighter, plunging-neckline version he'd sent to Lavender a few days later? That dress looked even better crumpled on the floor of the blonde's flat.

Of course, it looked like he'd have to do it again. Take Hermione out. Plan a special evening. Woo his way back in to her good graces. Maybe he'd take her away? Go somewhere fun, and bright, and find a big, Wizarding, hotel that was centrally located to everything that there was to see and do?

They'd had another argument, ironically enough given his current location, about her testifying on behalf of the Malfoys. He'd told her that she didn't owe that family of Death Eaters anything. She'd countered that she actually did, and that the official reason why she'd been subpoenaed had everything to do with what'd happened between her and the Malfoys. He'd countered that he'd been there, too, at Malfoy Manor and that she'd never let him forget that he'd run out on her and Harry. She countered that he didn't let _himself_ forget that he'd run out on her and Harry and the he didn't know what he was talking about. She added that it was a closed-session trial as there'd be Unspeakables, experts, certified Mages, Mistresses, Sorceresses, and Master's all giving testimony, along with her and Harry. He hollered that if the Ministry was going to call on complete strangers who weren't even there the day that they'd been Snatched to Wiltshire to speak about Ministry-only-knew-what, then he had every right to know what was going to be said in that courtroom. She suddenly got very quiet, and in a tone of voice he absolutely hated, stated that in this instance, he would hate what he would hear.

Things had only gotten uglier from there.

She reset the wards on her place, so that he couldn't have access.

That wouldn't do.

Granted a messy break-up would fuel headlines for weeks, but he was enough of a strategist to know that a short-term victory could undermine an overall campaign. And, there was the fact that he did love her. He did. He just wanted to be what he wasn't allowed to be while they were on the run. Nineteen year-old wizards were supposed to have girlfriends, temperamental relationships, flings, carry-on, and experience the world. He was just doing what he was supposed to be doing.

A sharp exhale in the form of shouted questions from the surrounding crowd broke Ron's internal filibuster on a bloke's right to live his life the way a bloke should live his life. The double-doors at his back glowed for a moment. The sequester ended. Lucius Malfoy and his wife emerged from the courtroom.

.

The columnist from Wizards' Whirl cast a _Sonorus!_ on himself so that he could be heard over all the others.

"Lord Malfoy! Lady Malfoy! What's the verdict?! Will you be going to Azkaban? If so, for how long?!"

Ron had to step aside to allow the tall, older man, to pass. His wife on his arm, Narcissa's expression remained as impassive as her husband's. Impeccably dressed, aloof, Draco Malfoy trailed behind his parents. Interestingly enough, close enough to be considered at his side, was an emotionally drained, nervously anxious, and tired-looking Hermione. Even more interestingly, Harry brought up the rear. If Ron were to make a guess, the way Harry kept his attention between Hermione's back and the phalanx of well-hooded Unspeakables still inside the courtroom? It was if Harry were protecting Hermione.

For once, his thoughts weren't on how to maximize he exposure. If Harry thought Hermione needed protecting, he'd see to it too.

He strode forward. To get to Hermione, he'd have to shoulder Ferret aside. He had no problem with that. Boyfriend-status trumped social pariah any day.

A snake-head topped cane hooked to his shoulder stopped him. The disdainful glare issued by the Malfoy wife had him opening his mouth like a fish. The harshly whispered warning from Ferret further raised his hackles. Hermione's all-but-imperceptible shake of her head, for him to bite his tongue, was insulting.

"We've got this, Weaslebee."

Harry, apparently, from the way Hermione, Harry, Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa exchanged the briefest looks, was one of the 'we've'.

To everyone else, it looked like a coincidence that Harry and Hermione and the Malfoys exited the room at the same time.

The questions from the crowd grew louder, more demanding.

Lucius and Narcissa stopped and addressed the throng. Behind them, Ferret led the way with Hermione practically at his elbow. Ron claimed the space next to Harry in bringing up the rear. Attention focused on the infamous husband and wife, the four of them made for the lifts.

That is, that's where Ron expected them to go.

Two-thirds of the way down the corridor, Malfoy opened the door of an un-marked office and hustled them all inside.

The room was relatively bare. Desk. Chair. An ancient fireplace framed with hand-formed bricks and crudely applied mortar. A pot of Floo powder on the deeply scarred mantle. Winky, the House Elf.

Regardless of what had happened in that courtroom, thank Merlin Harry wasn't suddenly Malfoy's best friend. Ron definitely didn't want Malfoy to know where they were going. Winky could pop them anywhere without a single word being said out loud.

With a nod to Winky from Harry, and after a quick hug between Harry and Hermione, Hermione avoiding Ferret's deliberate attempt to make eye-contact with her, the little elf snagged Hermione's hand and popped her away.

It was just him, Harry, and Dumbledore's not-quite assassin.

Judging by the way Harry still held his wand in his hand and rigid shoulders, there was a lot still unresolved between Harry and Malfoy.

"I'll Owl you."

Harry's only response?

"Good luck with that." In other words: _you can try, but you've got to find me first_.

Ron sidled up to Harry. Being taller, Ron reached down the Floo powder. He took a bit for himself and then passed the pot to Harry.

He didn't need to be told where they were going. He, Harry, and Hermione had worked out a series of destinations that were coded with names from the Tales of Beetle the Bard.

Harry threw his handful of powder into the fireplace and called out, "The Hopping Pot!"

With a _Whoosh!,_ Ron was left with the Ferret and Harry was on his way to a permanently rented Floo-equipped room at the Leaky Cauldron.

Apparently, whatever…courtesies…Malfoy Junior had extended to Harry and Hermione didn't extend to him because before Ron could call out his destination – Rabbity Babbity – and re-appear in an outer building at the Lovegood's Rookery, Malfoy opened his mouth.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Weasley."

"What's that supposed to mean, Malfoy?"

"You and Granger, of course. There's a trio of wizards, the likes of which you can't hope to compete with, just waiting for you to fuck it all up with her."

"Never gonna happen, Malfoy. You, least of all, have a chance with her."

The smirk that spread across the blond's face was downright chilling.

"You'd like to thinks so, Weaselbee." He crossed his arms across his chest and looked down his nose at him even though Ron was the taller of the two. "She's a Malfoy, and she knows it. She hasn't accepted it yet, but she will. And you being a colossal waste of Wizarding genealogy is only going to help drive that point home. Me and mine won't have to do a thing. You'll do it for us."

Ron didn't falter. Sure he acted dumb and careless, but he loved Hermione. In the end, once he'd settled down, he'd marry her. Together they'd create a couple of sprogs and they'll live happily ever after. He could actually see himself, Hermione, Ginny and Harry taking their respective kids to the Hogwarts Express. Hermione, fussing over the kids. Harry, offering words of advice to an anxious Firstie. Ginny, passing out bagged lunches just like his mom used to do. All would be as it was meant to be.

"Like I said, Malfoy: never gonna happen."

Ron threw in his powder, called out his destination, and walked into the green flames.

Malfoy scoffing at him followed him all the way back to the reconstructed Burrow.

.


	3. Chapter 3

_October 1999 - Fifteen Months Later…_

 _Hermione Granger's flat_

 _._

"Ron, I'm not going to do this with you." Hermione had one hand on the table as she balanced on one leg. Her other hand was busy tucking her other foot into her remaining black dress boot.

"Well too bad. We don't always get what we want, do we? I want my girlfriend to go with me to Muggle London so that I can take her on a romantic sunset ride on The Eye, and she won't go with me!"

Boot on, she straightened the shaft. She smoothed down any wrinkles in her dress – her winter funeral dress – and checked her tights for pulls or ladders. Not seeing any, she walked back into her bedroom. She needed her dress purse.

"Ron – normally I'd love to go with you. But she _died_ ; doesn't that mean anything to you?" She opened her closet door and rummaged through the assorted handbags that hung from the pegs. Her hand fell on a simple low-gloss black satin purse with a very thin strap. She tugged it free and strode to her vanity.

"No. Actually it doesn't."

In the mirror, she saw Ron in the doorway. He, let alone any man, wasn't allowed in her bedroom. They hadn't had sex for that matter. Not that he hadn't been pressuring her, because it was nearly a once-a-week discussion. After all, it wasn't like she knew he was a virgin and thus 'overdue for his first time'. He'd readily offered up a name when she'd asked him who his first was. Granted she was a little surprised, and unabashedly skeptical, to hear the name Sally Ann Perks, but it wasn't like she could hold him to any kind of exclusivity since they were never really together until after the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Ron – Draco Malfoy has to bury his mother today. Lucius Malfoy has to put his wife to rest. How can you not empathize with what they're going through right now?" She spoke to his reflection as she tucked a somber shade of lip stick, a prettily embroidered handkerchief, and a spare hair clip into her small handbag. Reflexively, she pressed her right palm to the underside of her left arm. A gauntlet constructed of tanned Thestral wing strapped her wand to her inner arm. Speaking more to herself, she muttered, "Sweater or wrap, sweater or wrap?"

Once again she made for her closet. Before she could get there, Ron passed her a medium-weight woolen cape that had a wide, fetching, funnel neck from the hallway coat tree.

"It's nearly the end of October. Wear this; it's thick enough that you'll stay warm but it's light enough so that you won't overheat. Also, you can take it off without messing up your hair. Not to mention that it'll leave your arms free to do…whatever."

She had always been a hugger. Funerals, weddings, and drunken pub crawls only made her even more hug-happy.

How could Ron know her so well and yet have no idea why it was important for her to be at Narcissa Malfoy's funeral?

"Ron – you know how much that woman meant to me! Over the past year, we've shared a lot."

Ever since the Malfoy's gained their freedom through _Nolo_ _Contendere_ , the 'official' finding that appeared in the newspapers and hotly debated in shops, street corners, and water coolers, across the Wizarding World, Hermione had come to cherish the once-a-week-sometimes-twice-a-week get-togethers she'd had with the aristocratic witch. Not to mention that it was through those meetings at tea rooms, cafés, bistros, chamber music recitals, operas, charity events, ballets, and strolls in various parks that Hermione had kept up-to-date with the goings-on within the Malfoy family. It was a way to keep the magic that she'd invoked at Beltane during Sixth Year sated. It was also a means of escaping the constant surveillance she, Harry, and select others, practiced to keep her out of the clutches of Aeneas Hollins, the foremost 'Recruitment Officer' for the Unspeakables.

To this day, she never thought that Harry Potter would volunteer to pop to the chemists to pick up her feminine hygiene products.

It was after a close-call with Hollins at a Boots that the man-who-was-more-than-her-brother-more-than-a-lover-someone-she'd-die-and-kill-for knocked on her door, a full sack in hand, and told her that he'd be making monthly deliveries. _And, by the way, the shop-girl said that these_ , he withdrew a box of over-the-counter muscle-relaxers that were different from her usual brand, _are so much better_. He didn't even blush! If anything, he looked like he'd received an Exceeds Expectations in Menstruation! She bought Harry lunch for a week when eight days later she spent the next four days cramp-free.

Oh, yeah – Hollins and his team were still after her. The man had been approaching her for years. He and two others appeared at her bedside, mere days after she survived Dolohov's curse, and promised a scarless cure for the large, jagged, painful, purple-colored tear in her skin. All she had to do was commit herself to joining their ranks after graduation and she could walk out of Hogwart's Infirmary perfectly healed. He then informed her that she'd drawn their attention since before Third Year, as her skill at being a Time Bender was revealed. Armed with proof of her modified Protean Charm and expedited OWL results, the Department of Mysteries wanted to extend a personal 'invitation' before she was courted by any other Department.

She told them, 'no thanks', and classified their 'invitation' as an exercise in extortion. She didn't tell them that she didn't know if she'd even be alive to graduate, let alone survive long enough to take up the hood of an Unspeakable.

With what had been revealed in Courtroom Eleven when it was proved that the Malfoys didn't hold any allegiance to Tom Riddle, and how Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy, who had been bound to Riddle in the same manner that a house-elf is bound to the master-of-the-family/house, had severed that bond to Riddle, Hollins' 'invitation' became a whole lot sinister and pathologically insistent.

Add to that Ron's unending bragging about her warding-skills as well as eye-witness accounts of the diversity and accuracy of spells attributed to her during the Battle of Hogwarts, she was Hollin's number one Acquisition.

Not that Unspeakables didn't do important work. Because they did. And not that Unspeakables weren't genuinely committed to the betterment of Wizarding kind. Because they were. But with her talents with Fire (apparently, her affinity for blue-bell flames is about as uncommon as Harry's ability to speak Parseltongue), Time, and Spell Modification, the Mysteries wanted her and figured that, in time, she'd thank them for forcing her to join their ranks.

Hollins' primary minion told her that last bit to her face _…This isn't personal. If you were a quadriplegic, deaf, blind, mute, one-hundred-seventy-eight year-old man named Bernard, who only had an hour to live, and the Director put Bernard's name at the top of the Fetch List, Hollins would focus his attentions on Bernard just as he has his attention focused on you right now…_ the last time they'd squared-off.

That time, a very ill Narcissa helped her hold Hollins' lackeys at-bay for the precious few seconds it took for Winky, her little hands covered in soap suds and a damp apron around her waist, to pop to where she and Narcissa faced off against a detail of three Unspeakables, and pop them away to the safety provided by the wild Eastern coast of Scotland.

Malfoy Manor no longer existed. The official report read that the Manor had been the victim of an overloaded Floo network which back-drafted rogue flames into every room in the estate that held a fireplace. By the time the Magical Fire Suppression Squad arrived in Wiltshire, there was no saving the structure.

The Malfoys resettled at Koldwynde Abbey, a well-maintained, little-used, Unplottable, Malfoy family property that was an elaborate hybrid of medieval Scottish stone-work, modern conveniences, and Jacobean architecture. The stately building was anchored to a sea-scraped bluff and the structure, built to honor the Old Ways, faced due East.

Unofficially? The Malfoys, collectively, burned Malfoy Manor to the ground.

The taint of Tom Riddle, the madness of Bellatrix, and the residual Dark Magic from the violent acts, the murders committed, and tortures unleashed, had seeped into the plaster, paint, and support beams. Echos of the lingering vileness played-out like memory wisps in the reflections of the windows.

Family heirlooms had been removed. Portraits were relocated to the historic estate that sat well north of Aberdeen.

By the time the Malfoys put down their wands, the multi-winged ancestral building became nothing but a grave that brimmed with ashes and charred debris. A bit of selective intimidation to the Floo Operator, as well as the delivery of several years' worth of income to the same Operator, and the Ministry log books matched the investigator's report and statements made by the family.

Upon escaping from Hollins minions, once the familiar surroundings of Koldwynde's first-floor morning room appeared around them, Hermione dispatched Winky to summon Narcissa's personal elf and to alert the nearest Malfoy that Narcissa needed help. She then guided Narcissa to the closest settee. Within minutes, Hermione had sprinted to Narcissa's apartments and returned to the flagging witch. Hermione knelt down in front of the slowly dying Lady and helped the older woman swallow her custom brewed Fortifyers.

Vile tasting they be, the Fortifyers were the last recourse in a long line of progressively aggressive treatments formulated to bolster Narcissa's body and magic. The nature of the wasting disease that had manifested within Narcissa affected a magical being at the very core of their being, their very magic. The best analogy Hermione could draw was that this wasting disease was the equivalent of a Muggle auto-immune disease where the body turned on itself. A magical being is dependent upon their magical traits. Without their magic, a magical being cannot survive. As in the muggle world, such a disease is a disease with no cure and a one-hundred-percent mortality rate. At this stage in her illness, the opposite of when she'd been first diagnosed the summer before Draco started Hogwarts, any magical transfusions did more harm than good – much the same as when the side-effects of chemotherapy cease to be the lesser-of-two-evils trade-off when the prescribed treatment only adds more suffering to a stage-four cancer patient. The tonics, of which Severus Snape focused his considerable skills to consistently improve potency, were the only reason why Narcissa still enjoyed her quality of life.

As in the Muggle world, the disease claimed a life lived much too short.

Hermione blinked away the tears that crowded her eyelashes. Thank goodness she only bought waterproof mascara.

Hermione really didn't have time to be arguing with Ron. Snape was as punctual as she was. This meant that if she didn't want the first words out of his mouth when he stepped through the Floo to be something disparaging about her concept of timeliness, she had only moments before he arrived.

"Ron, if you're worried about me, Master Snape will be my escort to and from the Abbey." Deep respect and abiding affection underscored her wry smile at her casual mention of Severus. It was for Ron's benefit that that she referred to the dark-haired man by his title. When in the company of any of the Viper Five or the Malfoys, she only addressed him by his first name. "There's no way the Unspeakables would get within a mile of that wizard's magical signature."

"Tell me something I don't know." Ron groused. But even he stepped aside as she made her way to her lounge.

She had even less time to deal with Ron's insecurities. She dredged up a half-truth that had been embellished over the past year to placate Ron's ego. "You know why they appear when I'm with you, right? It's because they know that they can use you against me."

The reason why Ron was a favorite target for one of Hollins' signature ambushes was because his magic simply wasn't as strong as Snape's, those of the Viper Five or the Gryffindor Seven – silly and outdated nick-names if anyone asked her because there were more than five Vipers and seven Gryffindors in their extensive social circle – or Fleur's, or any of the Malfoy's, especially Ab-

She stopped herself from even _thinking_ his name. She wished she could have Severus _Obliviate_ that person's name from her list of acquaintances, friends, and protectors. But neither her magic nor _his_ magic nor the Old Magic she'd invoked when she was seventeen would allow it.

No – her white lie was for the good of their relationship. Let Ron think that he was 'important enough' so that he could be used as a means to get to her. And, it wasn't like a wizard's Magical Quotient was a measure of someone's wizardliness or vitality. It was just a fact, like someone was blond, brunette, ginger, male or female. Seamus Finnegan was her go-to example. Shay was – _is_ – a heck of a good guy and a solid wizard. The reason why his spells and potions usually resulted in an explosion was because he usually lacked enough magical strength to bring his loftier magical intentions to fruition. It didn't mean that he was less of a man or less of a wizard or wasn't a smart bloke. It just meant that if a situation required more magical brawn than street-smart brawn, then Seamus was best included on the Team Physical rather than the Team Magic.

While definitely more powerful than Seamus, Ron wasn't nearly as strong as others in her life. Nor could he match her, as her Magical Quotient ranked highly. Ron hadn't quite accepted that aspect of himself yet. But Hermione was so looking forward to that day. When Ron came to terms with exactly who he was, and who he wasn't – just like every single person on the planet had to at one point in their lives – he was going to be Ronald 2.0: confident, assured, and able to do and be everything that his current jealousies, insecurities, and inferiority complexes prevented him from being and achieving.

She paused in front of the mirror mounted in hall hallway. She did a final check on her hair, make-up, and jewelry selections. She wore the pearl earrings and matching double-strand necklace that Narcissa had given her at Solstice. Her high-necked walnut-black cashmere dress was long-sleeved, lined in body-warming silk, and skimmed her knees. The self-belt of the matching fitted jacket defined her waist without adding bulk to any of the wrong places. The cape Ron had passed to her also knotted at the waist, but the wide funnel neck allowed for her pearls to be seen and the neckline of her dress and the collar of her jacket to be displayed. Her tall suede boots had a low-heel and were comfortable enough so that she could stand for hours without straining herself.

She looked like, and felt like, she was ready to mourn.

Actually, she'd been in mourning since Draco shared that Narcissa's days were numbered.

Truth be told, if Hermione handled her own death with a tenth as much grace and dignity Narcissa had presented, she'd leave this mortal world with those she loved well-prepared for her passing.

Despite the extent of Narcissa's suffering, no Malfoy, Snape, or member of the Viper Five who held Narcissa's Death Vigil was angry or resentful or sent curses to the Fates.

One by one, each of them placed boughs from the twelve sacred trees, the representations of the branches Cerridwen uses to warm her cauldrons, in every hearth at Koldwynde. For those who'd be with Narcissa in her prepared Chamber, it was their duty to gather additional woods and lay a path from the hearths to Narcissa so that the Goddess Cerridwen knew that she had an open invitation to Koldwynde, as Death was the only relief available to the severely ill witch.

Hermione sat at the foot of Narcissa's raised dais. Cushioning and warming charms lined the ceremonial white linens fitted to the dying witch and the stone-hewn bedstead on which she laid.

In the tradition of the Old Ways, Narcissa's family sat facing the dying witch. Each had one hand on Narcissa's body: mind, body, soul, spirit. Lucius had claimed the right side of his wife and sat level to her heart. Draco sat on her left, also level to her heart. Between them, they leaned forward as each held one of her hands so that her arms crisscrossed her body comfortably, the representation of the eternal connection between the powerful triumvirate of man, woman, and child. Severus sat behind Draco; his right hand on Narcissa, his left hand on his godson's shoulder, the personification of familial loyalty and love. The remaining wizard mirrored Severus in every sense; right hand on Narcissa, his left on Lucius, personification of familial loyalty and love. She didn't ask which wizard had claimed which aspect of Narcissa because each of them cherished the woman and witch as a whole just as Hermione did. For Hermione? The Old Ways and her own personal convictions were the reasons why she chose to place both hands, one near each ankle, on Narcissa; she was the Maid at the feet of the Mother. Cerridwen, the Crone, would complete their Witches' Triad when the Celtic Goddess of Death came for Narcissa.

Narcissa joined hands with Cerridwen with an unencumbered final breath and a smile of encouragement for the five people seated around her. The lit dual-wick candle on her side table, the same dual-wick candle lit at the bonding ceremony of Lucius and Narcissa, the Old symbol of the life they'd share from the moment they'd completed their marriage vows forward, the wick on the left no longer carried a flame. No longer sustained by the magic of marriage, the candle would burn and wax melt for the first time since before Draco was born.

Today she would be interred. For most, the viewing would be the time for those who wished to pay their respects to the Lady Narcissa and her family. It would be afterward, in a private ceremony limited to those who'd kept her Death Vigil, both from inside and outside her Chamber, when Narcissa would be laid to rest. As her husband and her son, it fell to Lucius and Draco to gather the branches and boughs that lined the hearths and paved the way to Narcissa's Chamber and arrange the gathered wood of the twelve different woods into her funeral pyre. Vigil Keepers would use their wands to levitate Narcissa's physical body, wrapped in her white linens, from her Chamber to the pyre. Hand in hand, eyes and hearts focused, Keepers circled the pyre. Lucius' marriage flame and the melted wax from their wedding candle would be the means to light the sacred woods of at sundown. When Lucius was ready to emotionally and mentally let go of Narcissa, he'd light a single-wick candle so that, should the time come, he could then transfer his flame to the wedding candle of his next bride.

The sudden flare of green flames in her fireplace meant Hermione only had seconds remaining if she didn't want her location or Severus' location to be traced by the Department of Mysteries.

She turned towards Ron. She didn't have enough control on her emotions to prevent another debate from quickly escalating into a fully-fledged shouting match.

"Ron – can we please not do this right now?"

She didn't ask for a draw often and was grateful when he kept his mouth shut and simply nodded his head. She stifled the irrational urge to flinch when he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her.

She stepped out of his embrace and placed her gloved hand on his cheek. With her eyes, she thanked him for dropping the issue.

He spoke so quietly that she was afraid she'd not be able to hear him at all.

"I just don't like you going over there, that's all."

Of course he couldn't not say anything. What was she thinking?

But she could let it go. For her sake, for the sake of the Malfoys, for the sake of the woman and witch who was going to be honored in flowers, song, and personal recollections.

"I know today isn't Tuesday, Ron. But maybe you could visit Fred's grave anyway?"

"That's a good idea. I think I'll do that."

Severus' long fingers reached through the green flames. With a parting look at Ron, who clearly read her disappointment, she let herself be pulled though.

.


	4. Chapter 4

_December 2001 - Castlerigg Standing Stones_

 _Twenty-seven months later, Night of the Solstice…_

 _._

Magical or Muggle, Yuletide represents many things: the end of the calendar year, a festive respite from the ardors of winter, the turning of the celestial clock, reigning constellations change hands, and daylight slowly loosens night's grip.

For Lucius, and by extension the rest of his family, tonight, _this_ night, the night of the Solstice, was all of the above and more. As a Wizard dedicated to the Old Ways, this meant that the metaphors were more literal than figurative.

The arduous journey from Koldwynde to Castlerigg had been made alone and without modern or, for most part, magical means. The only magic Lucius had been allowed, a concession made necessary by the pressing Muggle population, was a potent Disillusionment charm bestowed upon him and the well-blanketed horse he rode. The journey was his time to reflect; to examine whether or not he was truly ready; to be beyond any influences other than his own private, personal, motivations. A pilgrimage of the heart, his experiences with cold, fatigue, hunger, thirst, cleanliness, and the rugged terrain were the travails he had to endure and overcome to prove to himself that his petition to the Old Ones to release him from Narcissa was true and honorable. If he faltered at any moment during his journey, the flame he carried would vanish. Despite having years to prepare for his wife's death, he and Draco had mourned her passing for more than two years.

The seven day, for that was all the time the Old Ones allotted, journey alone would not prove Lucius' state-of-heart. A man's capacity to trick himself rang throughout history and created bloody battlefields ranging from the floor of a simple crofter's cottage, to the Battle of Hastings, to the atrocities of the modern age and current political climate, to the struggles of an addict to remain chemically independent.

Despite the excessive wind gusts that buffeted the plateau, channeled down from the high peaks of Skiddaw, Blencathra, Helvellyn and Lonscale Fell, the single flame on candle he carried remained lit. On either side of him walked two of the four most important people in his life: his son and his wand-brother.

The three of them were walking to the man, the wizard, who'd saved them all from the foolishness of a younger and angrier Lucius Malfoy.

In the center of the standing stones, a dark silhouette could be seen against the backdrop of starlight, moonlight and the Northern Lights. The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars had shown themselves. Auspiciousness resonated throughout the megalithic henge and between the four magical beings.

Eyes well-adjusted to the meagre celestial light, none of the three neither tripped nor stumbled as they completed their walk. For Lucius, the hardships he'd endured to reach this place steadied him.

They reached their places. The one they'd approached, he began to chant. In his hands he held an unlit, uncolored candle.

The wind that the mountains corralled for many a millennia no longer breached the circle of stones.

The brittle grass under their feet stilled in absence of the wind and influx of the magicks being invoked.

The very air around them ceased to move as the wizard switched from chanting to posing the ritualistic questions to Lucius.

At each question, Lucius answered, unable to be anything but truthful to the wizard who stood opposite him or to himself. With each answer, his flame remained true and bright.

To Draco and Severus, the two wizards who flanked Lucius, they too asked questions of Lucius as much as the officiating wizard asked questions of them as dictated by their roles in Lucius' ceremony.

Magic from before the time of the Picts, Celts, and Druids flowed around the four wizards. The convocation lasted as long as it took for Judgment to fall on Lucius.

The tears the men shared were sacred and holy and cathartic. The bonds formed transcended that of brother, friend, father, and son as much as each role was renewed and honored.

On his knees, Lucius' final answer, surrendered from the very bottom of his soul by hoarsely whispered brutal honesty, was lifted towards the heaven by the up-swinging arms of those grouped around him.

A streak of vivid red and three streaks of living green arched overhead.

Lucius stood without assistance from his son or Severus. He drew his candle close to his mouth. With an exhaled breath that was neither deep nor shallow nor hard nor soft, the flame separated from the wick. The ember floated elegantly across the sacred twelve feet between Lucius and the other wizard. With all the grace of a man bowing to his heart's choice, the flame touched the single-wick candle carried by the man standing opposite him. For three of the four wizards, Lucius' emancipation meant that their next stage of their pursuit of…well, _everything_ …could commence. And, their intentions now held the approval of the Old Ones.

More had transpired that night than originally conceived. Along with Lucius' emancipation, the pillars of each of the four men's souls had been reset. They weren't men – wizards – made anew. They were wizards – men – who now had a firm concept of their _true_ worth, their _true_ capabilities, and their _true_ desires without the fallacies of pride, insecurity, guilt, delusion, or misplaced anger. Some aspects of their personalities became Darker, while other facets sparkled in the Light of their epiphanies.

The four weren't made perfect by their experience at Castlerigg.

If they were 'made' at all, they were made to see the best of who they truly were.

As such, they returned to their lives.

The tasks at hand, especially those centered around the next Malfoy bride, became more cohesive as Lucius was now able to fully… _participate_.

.


	5. Chapter 5

.

 _December 2003 - Holland Park, Mayfair…_

 _Two Years Later_

 _._

Was it manly and honorable to have a penchant for gossip?

Hell. No! But, he did anyway.

Was it manly and honorable to summon the troops when one of their own needed assistance?

Hell. Yes! Luckily for them, he _excelled_ at heraldry.

Was there a gray-area where the need to summon the troops coincided with the fall-out of a juicy confrontation between one of their own and someone who wasn't?

OH. _HELL._ YESSS!

That mentality firmly in place, Adrian Pucey charged up the front steps of Blaise Zabini's posh Holland Park townhouse, barged through the front door, bypassed every security ward in the place, ignored the extensive Yule decorations, and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"Where the fuck-all is everyone?!"

From the third floor, a voice answered. "We're up here!"

Adrian now had a direction and he wasted no time in climbing three flights of stairs. He hands barely felt the garlands of holly and pine that twined around the bannisters. He muttered completely insincere apologies when he batted away faeries bearing mistletoe and baubles. He took a corner so sharply that he knocked over a house elf that was carrying a tray of Christmas treats.

Only when he reached the third floor did he slow down. Barely. He didn't want to waste time tripping over his own feet by stumbling over the threshold.

Blaise successfully converted the entire top level of his townhouse house into one, large, open floor plan. Instead of walls dividing up the longer-than-wider space, he'd simply placed different furniture groupings in various areas: nearest the door was the billiard table, a few feet away rested an over-sized arm chair, matching love seat, and end table, beyond that stood a fully stocked bar with matching bar stools and a brass rail. A long comfortable sofa, ottoman, coffee table, club chair and simple, but thick, area rug nestled together at the farthest end. The three evenly spaced floor-to-ceiling extra-wide bay windows sported lushly padded window seats and tasteful drapery. Nothing felt crowded or overdone. The perfectly kitted Christmas tree between the second and third window twinkled festively.

If he hadn't been at St Mungo's picking up preventative potions for his up-coming trip to Istanbul, he wouldn't have seen what he saw. It was a given that he'd be begging Snape to remove half of what was now seared onto the insides of his eyelids. No matter how care-free he lived his life, not even Adrian Pucey deserved to carry _those_ images in his head for the rest of his life.

Morgana be blessed! Some of the younger Viper Five, as well as two members of the Gryffindor Seven, sipped beverages and shared nibbles.

He scanned the room and immediately began assigning tasks to those who'd opted for an early arrival to Blaise's annual Yule party.

George Weasley was winning a game of billiards against Theo Nott as Blaise and Marcus watched. Thank the gods, he wouldn't have to go hunting for a rational Weasley. Pansy Parkinson, with her girlfriend Tracey Davis close by, was having a conversation with Oliver Wood. Wood, Pans, and Trace would be able to assist with the back-end of things. Which would help keep tensions down, because not everyone in their social circle played nicely. There was, literally, too much blood and too many broken bones on the quidditch pitch for Marcus and Wood to call each other 'friend', but they'd held each other's backs on more than one occasion when Hollins' minions had attempted to corner Granger. Adrian had already included Marcus as someone he'd be taking with him. By sending Pansy to Koldwynde Abbey, if Ginny Weasley showed up at St Mungo's then Pansy wouldn't be at the hospital to make an already volatile situation even more unstable. Pansy couldn't stand Ginny Weasley and Weasel-she believed Pansy breathed good air she might need later on in life. Not that the Weasle-she came around much, but every once and a while their paths would cross and snide words and not-so-subtle hexing would be exchanged. Frankly, Adrian just figured that if Ginny stopped trying to buff her muff with blokes and actually gave Pansy a go, things would be settled between them. Heck, Tracey would climb onto that mattress in a heartbeat; that Davis girl was sex-on-a-stick! He had it on good authority that Davis' 'oral skills' included the ability to lift a bludger sans hands! Plus, Pansy had a way with the Malfoy men; she'd be able to relay information in way that the Malfoys couldn't misconstrue anything she'd say and she'd do her best to try to prevent them from over-reacting.

Who was he kidding? OF COURSE they were going to over-react! But, he could count on Pansy to choose her words carefully as to avoid saying the wrong thing to the yet-to-be-seen wizards.

He mentally divvied up the rest of the crew.

Blaise and Theo... Blaise needed to stay. Theo could either come with him, travel with Pansy, or help Blaise manage things from the townhouse. He'd decide on Theo's job in a minute. The Malfoys would have their legal teams mobilized before they left Koldwynde; that was one front he didn't have to consider. With Marcus, himself, and the Malfoys – it was a 'given' that Potter was already en-route – they'd have all the wand, brawn, and political power they'd need to spring the witch or battle their way out of St Mungo's if need be.

They just needed to get there – five minutes ago could almost be considered as 'too late'.

If Adrian knew Granger was at St Mungo's, then it'd only be a matter of time, a very finite amount time that was diminishing by the moment, before the Mysteries knew as well. Which meant that Hollins would be there – sooner than later.

Adrian rubbed his hands together; the proverbial clock was ticking. Loudly.

Time to deploy the troops.

"So – who fancies a field trip?"

Blaise tapped the back of his hand to Marcus' stomach and together they stepped forward; they were 'in'. George set down his cue stick; his light banter with Theo swapped for an, 'I'm game', expression. Theo, for his part, immediately understood that his evening's plans had just changed. Oliver rose; he extended his hands to Pans and Trace and helped the ladies to their feet.

Unlike their counterparts, the Gryffindor Seven, The Viper Five wasn't just a collection of five former Slytherins. They were five families – now extended – each of whom had made pledges of loyalty and, once _he_ had been returned, fealty. Granger's bit of Beltane magic saved more than just the Malfoy family from complete subjugation by Tom Riddle and subsequently spared them all incarceration in the wake of the two days of nonstop testimony provided by everyone else who was sequestered inside that courtroom along with Granger, Potter, Draco and his parents. Because of Granger, through the oaths given to the Malfoy Pater, the Flints, Puceys, Zabini and his siblings, Theo Nott and select members of his extended family, and the Parkinsons had a chance to live the lives they were supposed to live.

The Malfoys weren't a Viper. They had their own classification. Just like Potter wasn't a part of the Gryffindor Seven. That lad carried a designation all his own.

Oddly enough, the world didn't stop spinning on its axis when they discovered that Gryffs and Vipers actually got-on.

"Marcus – you're with me."

The big guy nodded. He'd expected as much.

"Blaise – you need to monitor your Floo and beef up your wards. Keep your elves close. Anything could be used as a Portkey and an un-suspecting elf is the perfect patsy." He wasn't exaggerating the seriousness of the situation. "If we come back here, you need to make sure that nothing else and no one else does. Understand?"

"Consider it done." Blaise was formidable wizard, even more so when one of his own was in need. He never made a promise that he couldn't – or wouldn't – keep.

Oliver chimed, "I'll give you a hand."

Tracey added her Charms skills to the Blaise and Wood team.

"Pansy – you need to go to…"

The dark-haired witch didn't need him to finish his sentence. "All I need to know is what to tell the Malfoys when I get to the Abbey."

"We'll go over that in a minute, okay?" At that, Adrian fixed his gaze on George and laid the blame squarely at the feet of the wizard behind this mess. "I'm so sorry mate. But your brother royally fucked-up – big time."

George didn't palm his face. Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest and didn't seem the least bit surprised. "What'd he do?"

"Completely unoriginal, that one." At that, Adrian smiled ruefully. "It wasn't so much what he did. It's what _Granger_ did."

Adrian couldn't resist imparting a bit of advice to the exasperated ginger. Hell, they all could use a little 'Christmas cheer' before the evening's 'festivities' commenced.

"You're so going to want to bring a camera."

.


	6. Chapter 6

_St Mungo's for Magical Maladies_

 _Same Night_

* * *

.

Harry looked to his left. Next to him stood Draco Malfoy. On his right, Adrian Pucey. Marcus Flint stood behind them as there wasn't enough room for all four of them to stand side by side. Their paths had merged moments ago on the roof of St Mungo's. Marcus and Adrian had arrived together via Apperation and a wind-swept Malfoy was in the middle of removing the bit-and-bridle from his Thestral when Harry alighted from his broom. With barely a handful of words exchanged as 'pleasantries', the four wizards made for the nearest door and clambered down the access stairs.

It was to Adrian he spoke as the lift drew them closer to where they needed to go.

"Any answer from Bill?"

Adrian was an up-and-coming freelancer who specialized in the area of Dead Languages. He'd been contracted twice by Gringotts to assist with excavations. Each time Adrian traveled under the Goblin's banner, his on-site team leader had been Bill Weasley. The two men got on well. As Bill was Fleur's husband, and Fleur was an extended member of the Gryffindor Seven, Bill was one of the people Harry had Owled when Harry read whose name was on the arrest warrant issued by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the behest of St Mungo's Security Office. Not that Bill was an Auror or consultant for the DMLE. Bill's lupine abilities were the best early-warning system for when the Mysteries decided to make themselves known. And the almost-Lycan could land a punch with his right hand and spell-cast with his left.

"No. Not yet. I Floo'd him, but there was no one home."

Harry was somewhat surprised to hear that. He knew that Fleur spent Solstice with her family in France. The lovely quarter-Veela wouldn't be back in Britain until Christmas Eve. The bank was closed for the day; Bill should've been home…

Neither Draco nor Marcus commented. If anything, Harry took the other two's stoic silences as a measure of the wizards deepening mental and magical preparations.

A disembodied female voice with a non-descript accent interrupted their conversation.

"Fourth Floor: spell damage, unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied charms."

Harry squared his shoulders. Adrian looked to be highly entertained. Draco buffed his Malfoy veneer to a high shine. Marcus stretched his arms as a means to loosen the underlying muscles.

The doors parted. Gaining the corridor, Harry placed himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco. Adrian fell in-step not a half-a-stride behind them. Marcus was a full stride behind them, protecting their collective backs.

Somewhere on the floor, a commotion could be heard. Being still too far away from the source, they couldn't make out the exact words being shouted.

Behind them, the near-distant ding of the lift arriving and the sound of hurrying feet had the four imposing wizards stepping aside.

Judging by the colors of their Ministry issued robes, a trio of Hit Wizards – one female and two male – sprinted down the corridor.

Harry glanced at Adrian. Who shook his head. Neither of them had heard of anything happening that would require dispatching those trained to capture dangerous Wizarding criminals to St Mungo's.

The closer the four got to the central station for the floor, the more clearly they could hear the commotion.

To Harry's budding-Auror eyes, there seemed to be an awful lot of hospital personnel, patients, and well-wishers grouped around one particular trauma treatment area.

Harry fought not to smile. Adrian didn't bother. Even Malfoy's impassiveness cracked for moment as a familiar feminine voice reverberated off of the walls. Marcus let himself chuckle out loud, albeit quietly.

The four of them bypassed the help-desk.

They didn't need to ask where Hermione was.

It was her voice that was dressing down anyone and everyone that stood within a ten foot radius.

The Ministry didn't send nearly enough Hit Wizards.

:

:

"Miss Granger – be reasonable!"

Joining the crowd, Harry peered at the goings' on in Treatment Room Three.

Two Healers, marked by their lime-green robes, had their wands out and flanked a double-wide gurney. The three Hit Wizards who had run by them just moments ago were trying to get a hold of an irate, five-foot-four, hundred-twenty-pound, finely-boned witch who was beyond caring about what she said, how she said it, or who she said it to, and had wriggled out of their grasp.

"Miss Granger – you _must_ _be_ reasonable!" The older of the two Healers, the one who stood near the head of the gurney, came very close to not being polite or professional as he growled his 'request'.

If the Healer had asked her to be _rational_ , then maybe the Healer stood a chance of having Harry's best friend comply. Because there was no way in the seven hells that she was about to be _reasonable_. Harry knew that if this Healer didn't get his head out of his arse in regards to how to handle an angry Hermione Granger, she was liable to do something to him, too.

"I believe I've been MORE than reasonable!" She gestured at the gurney. "Do you know what I _could've_ done?"

Her question was rhetorical, but everyone in that room had a clear mental image of what the witch's flair for retribution could have yielded.

A female's muffled crying was barely discernable.

The Healer pointed again at the gurney. "There's a woman in distress here!"

"There's a woman in distress here, and no one's doing anything to help me, are they!" Hermione, clearly emotional, cut the Healer off at his knees.

Harry and Draco both shouldered their way forward. Harry's infamous scar didn't part the crowd as efficiently as Malfoy's Dark scowl.

"Well – _you_ did this to them!" The Healer attempted to justify himself. And, he stopped her indignant reply cold. He waved his hand at the portable hospital bed. "Well – you _did_! How else do you explain the fact that we've tried every Nullifier and nothing's worked?"

She stomped her foot – directly on the instep of the Hit Wizard who was trying fit her wrists with magical restraints. The Hit Wizard hobbled to the side. His two partners stepped up, and were stopped by Malfoy's coldly issued command. Shoulder-high, his brandished wand was level with Harry's. "Don't even think about touching her."

Hermione, though, had her focus on the two Healers and the sheet-covered lumps on the gurney.

In one fluid motion she skirted the limping Hit Wizard, ignored the fact that she probably did break a bone or two in his foot, and yanked off the sheet.

The glare of the bright overhead lighting left no room for doubt as to whom, what, why, and how-come Hermione had done what the two Healers said she did.

She waved both hands at the two on the gurney and seethed as much to the Healers, Hit Wizards, and hangers-on as much as she did to a shivering, mortified, n-a-k-e-d, shaking, Ron and Lavender.

" _They_. _Did_. _This_. _To_. _Them_. _Selves_."

She held up her left hand and swung her arm in an arch, so that everyone could see. An obvious indentation spanned the base of her now-bare third finger. "This _idiot_ , who was stupid enough to cheat on me, knows how lucky he is." She craned her head at the ginger-haired cheater. In a syrupy-sweet voice, she cooed menacingly, "Don't you, wittle Won-Won?"

Ron turned his head as much as he could. Which wasn't far, considering his predicament. Eyebrows high, eyes round and pupils dilated, he nodded his head rapidly as best he could. Lavender cried even louder, begging for someone to help her.

"You want someone to help you, you little slag? Help yourself – by not being a slag!" Hermione glanced around the room, ostensibly counting the number of 'witnesses' to Ron's infidelity. "Can't fast-talk your way out of this one, Lav-lav."

Adrian had come to stand behind Harry. Marcus was on Adrian's right. Draco was on the left. Harry had no trouble picking up on how impressed all of them were. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco trace the 'M' of his signet ring with his thumb.

"Damn, Potter. That's one hell of a witch." Marcus rocked on his heels as he took in the sight of a fully-riled Hermione Granger.

Adrian gave a low whistle of admiration. "Hell yes, she is."

Harry didn't know what to say. His mind was whirling! Two things were certain, though. The first was that he was glad that he loved his best friend but even more glad that he wasn't in love with his best friend. Their relationship had transcended to a place beyond lovers and more than friends, and adding sex or a romantic aspect to their relationship would take away from what they shared. The second thing he was certain of? Hermione had really, _really_ , outdone herself. She had just put her own stamp of ownership on the saying, 'hand in the cookie jar'.

On his knees and bent at the waist, Ron's hands had spread Lavender's ass cheeks. Ron's entire body was on display and naked as the day he was born. His mouth pressed firmly into Lavender's vulva and his nose grazed her perineum. His flaccid penis and bare scrotum dangled…obscenely. The only thing he wore? A bright red flush of embarrassment decorated the tops of his shoulders.

Fingers curling into the thin mattress, Lavender balanced on her palms and knees. Due to her position, she only had the use of one hand to attempt to preserve what little modesty that only she thought that remained as her other arm propped her upright. Tears flowed down her face and dripped onto the sheets underneath her chin. She switched between covering her bare breasts and the very top of her mons.

"Oh. Sweet. Mother. Of. Merlin."

The up-until-now unflappable Draco Malfoy spoke the same words that speared Harry's brain as he figured out why Ron and Lavender hadn't moved into…less explicit…positions. Harry noticed Marcus jostle Adrian to look in the same direction as everyone else when the big guy zeroed in on the same glint of metal that made Malfoy say what he did.

Like a peg through the ear at a pillory, Ron's tongue was connected to Lavender's clitoris via Hermione's engagement ring. Ron couldn't remove his hands because his palms were magically sealed to Lavender's ass cheeks.

A medi-witch tried to spell a pair of pants onto Ron. Another attendee transfigured two lengths of gauze into a gauzy halter-top and crotchless knickers for Lavender. The transfigured clothing reverted to it's original state when they sailed within three inches of the mid-cunnilingus couple.

His gaze slid from Hermione to Malfoy. Harry couldn't stop himself from lightly elbowing the blond man. "You sure you, and yours, still want her?"

Draco pivoted his head away from the spectacle that was Ron and Lavender and leveled Harry with the most sincere expression of devotion, admiration, protectiveness, and pride.

"More than ever, Potter."

.

The shock of seeing such spell-work on display only lasted a moment, but Hermione made the most of it.

She prowled around the gurney, keeping one eye on the Hit Wizards who were determined to restrain her and the other on the Healers. The last thing she needed was for the Healers to side with the Hit Wizards and be spelled into unconsciousness.

"This piece of crap," she pointed at Ron's ass and didn't acknowledge Lavender's theatrical snot-sucking whimpering, "proposed to me three days ago. We've been together for _years_. And he…he…" Her righteous indignation grappled with her crushed heart and trampled ego. Her voice broke and she needed a moment to swallow her vulnerability. "He was so proud of this ring, you see. 'It's Goblin-made, _Hermione_!'; 'You're worth it, _Hermione'_ ; 'You deserve the best, _Hermione'_."

The Healer, the one who hadn't tried to reason with her previously, latched on the break in her voice during her rant. "Miss Granger, he doesn't deserve this."

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

Her ire flared so brightly that those around her sensitive to auras physically flinched.

"Doesn't deserve this? DOESN'T DESERVE THIS?!" Tears long held at bay finally found a way around her emotional dam. She rounded on the man as she laid bare every reason why she had every right to be so upset. "Were you there three nights ago, when he got down on one knee, in front of everyone, and proposed to me? Were you there when I initially didn't say yes and ran out the room, only to have him follow me out to his family's apple orchard? Did you hear him promise me everything I needed to hear before I agreed to marry him? Did you see the way he looked at me when I held out my hand and he slid the band down my finger?!"

How dare these people think that she was over-reacting!

On the gurney, Lavender obviously didn't know that Ron had proposed; the blonde witch started to berate Ron – not so much for actually proposing but for not telling his long-term fuck-buddy that he'd proposed to his long-time girlfriend.

She swiped at her tears with the edges of her fingers, her anger at herself for such a display only half as deep as her anger at Ron and Lavender – which was still pretty fucking deep. "This foolish boy obviously didn't do his homework when he got me that ring. Let me spell it out for you, because obviously you aren't comprehending a word I'm actually saying: G-O-B-L-I-N made en-gage-ment ring!"

Two blurs of red and palest gold caught her attention. Bill and Fleur and George Weasley had arrived.

She liked and admired Bill. She really liked his wife. She really adored George. She wouldn't hold what Ron and Lavender did against them – unless Bill, George, or anyone else for that matter, knew about Ron's indiscretions. 'Indiscretions' – what a sugar-coated way of stating something so soul-damaging.

"Did you know about this?" She dared Bill, and by extension George, Harry, Draco, Fleur, Adrian and Marcus and anyone else in the exam room to tell her the truth.

George scuffed his shoes across the linoleum floor and confessed, "He'd promised me that he'd quit."

She inhaled sharply at what George had kept from her.

He quickly fixed his blue eyes on his brother, then Bill, and then looked back at her. "It was years ago when I cornered him about it. But he'd told me that he would quit!"

The Weasley brothers and the Veela looked aghast. Their gazes bounced between her, the two on the gurney, and the gawkers. They didn't, nor did she for that matter, miss the way that Draco and Harry had the Hit Wizards at wand-point, or that Marcus kept a roving eye on the perimeter, or that Adrian had nothing but solidarity for her as he worked to disperse the crowd.

"Curse Breaker Weasley – thank you for answering our Urgent Owl." Healer One broke through the emotional standoff.

Bill acknowledged the man but kept his eyes on her. He answered for everyone else sans George. "I had no idea, Hermione." He tangled his fingers with his wife's. "I'm so, so, sorry."

She could feel her magic crackling as she came close to losing control. Her hands shook and she felt the sting of unwanted tears in her eyes. "Don't you DARE feel sorry for me!"

Bill gave her the honesty she needed to hear. "I'm sorry he did this to you. But I don't pity you. None of us do. And, as much as Ron's an embarrassment to himself and to our family right now, he's still my brother and I love him – even if I want to dangle him off of the edge of a cliff and drop him."

"I'll do it for you, Bill. No problem." Adrian's smooth contra-tenor was a momentary, much needed, verbal chocolate truffle. If Adrian wasn't such a potently too-male-for-his-own-good wizard, he'd tie with Fleur as her best girl friend.

Somehow, Hermione could hear Lavender's pathetic whining. "What about me? Doesn't anyone care about what's happening to me?"

"Curse Breaker Weasley – our Urgent Owl?" Healer One interrupted for a second time.

Bill shook his head, his only concession – but not an apology – for not answering the man the first time. "Always glad to help St Mungo's. I would've been here sooner, but I when I learned of the nature of your…request…I was correct in thinking that my wife would want to join me."

He took another look at his brother standing on his right and then at the brother on his knees on the gurney.

"Seeing as she won't tell us anything," the Healer sneered at Hermione. "We need you to identify which curse, hex or jinx Ms Granger utilized so that we can separate Ms Brown and Mr Weasley," Healer One explained. "As you can see –"

"I wish I hadn't." Marcus shivered as if he'd been hit with an icy _Aguamenti_.

"Second time is so not the charm, my friend." Adrian concurred.

"– the situation is desperate." The Healer finished, with only a derisive scowl at Adrian and Marcus for interrupting him.

She felt a surge of overwhelming friendship for the men in her life when they all snickered at Ron's expense after George stage-whispered, "Desperate – for an Obliviate."

"Two Obliviates for me, please – need to forget that I had forgotten something like this." Harry added, clearly not joking.

The Healer continued as if it were every day that he'd had to address such a bodily arrangement. He gave a summary of the treatments attempted thus far. "We have applied every Nullifyer we know and even ventured to try some topically applied potions to facilitate separation – each to no avail."

"You mean to say that you want Bill…" George cocked his head, as if his one good ear had failed him, and then pointed at his brother. "You're needing Bill to get…up close and personal…with _that_?" George's full-body shudder wasn't exaggerated or limited to just himself. He clapped Bill on the shoulder, as if he'd found the 'bright side' of things. "Better you than me, Brother Bill!"

"I second that," Adrian quipped.

"Take it from ole Ronnie-boy." As only a brother could do, George reached forward and smartly smacked Ron's bare ass. Startled, Ron lurched forward, which pressed Lavender forward only to bounce backwards against Ron's mouth. A red handprint bloomed on the pale, freckly, skin as George retook his place at Bill's right shoulder. "You go near _that_ ," George jutted his chin at Lavender's Ron-covered quim, "and you might not make it out."

A spattering of snickers broke out at George's deliberate double entendre.

Bill pulled himself together. To everyone's collective squeamishness, he stepped forward. He pulled out his wand and after a moment or two of trying to find the least intrusive access angle he proceeded.

"Ms Brown, if you would – please lift your breasts out of my face." Bill twisted onto his back, shimmied underneath Lavender's chest and stomach so that he could place his head, and his wand, near the engagement ring. Which was directly underneath Ron's quivering chin. "Ron – I swear to Merlin, Morgana, Isis, and Shiva: if you or Ms Brown drool on me, I'll turn your bed pillows into the hairiest, scariest, face-suckingest spiders you'll forever wish you'd never seen every night for the next ten years."

He murmured a few diagnostic charms, focused on the golden band as well as the setting of the ring. He extracted himself without touching any aspect of the beleaguered witch or a single drop of drool on his face, and then took a big step away from the hospital bed. He gave his wife a discrete smile when she not-so-discretely flicked her wand and sent a powerful _Scourgify!_ over his entire body.

"I am extremely familiar with Ms Granger's magical signature. It is not her magic that you need to break to separate my brother from Ms Brown." Bill became the professional that made Gringotts proud. "This is predominantly Goblin magic, Healers. That's why your Nullifyers were completely ineffectual. Ms Granger is not… _entirely_ ," he all but swallowed the word, downplaying her culpability as he re-raised his voice, "responsible for this."

Spouting medical and magical references and instances from their own professional experiences loudly, both Healers took exception to his declaration.

A different voice cut through the throng.

The voice wiped the smug look off of Hermione's face and sent Fleur across the exam room to stand by her side. Draco's expression became even more shuttered and she put away any notions that Harry, Adrian, Marcus, Bill and George could successfully negotiate her release.

Aeneas Hollins, from the Department of Mysteries, stepped forward.

"The witch, Hermione Jane Granger, is a danger to herself and those around her. It is for her own well-being and the safety of everyone here that she be remanded into our custody on the grounds of-"

"Don't listen to him!"

Hermione felt fear, real fear, for the first time in a long time. This new tactic was dangerously viable. Tendrils of desperation squeezed her ribs and slithered around the inside of her throat, threatening her air supply. She had to do something to keep Hollins and his henchmen at bay! She flung her arm and pointed at where Ron and Lavender were joined. "Come near me and I'll hit that slut with a colon cleansing spell so fast Ron won't have time to close his mouth or plug his nose!"

She glared at the Healers, Hit Wizards, hospital security, and Hollins, all of whom knew she was without her wand. She didn't know exactly where her wand was, all she knew it was being Priori'd somewhere in the hospital as she'd gladly handed it over when she'd first arrived.

"Don't think I need a piece of wood to do it!"

A collective cringe rippled through those who were still standing around her.

Hollins almost broke character when she revealed one more reason – her capacity for wandless magic – for him to get his hands on her.

Ron, for his part, doubled his pleas for someone to shake him free before he got brown-eyed by a veritable shite storm. She caught Harry and then Draco's eyes. Both gave her an easily translated nod: _hold on, we'll get you out of here_.

"We normally don't like to share details such as these, but given the circumstances…" Hollins was the epitome of cultured, magnanimous, benevolence as he didn't even acknowledge her crass threat. "Ms Granger's encounter with a Dark Knife has left…an _impression,_ if you will… on her mind and magic. And because the source of this… _sociopathic_ _behavior_ ," this was where he alluded to her less-than-ladylike-not-even-close-to-being-honorable knee-jerk promise to use the bottom third of Lavender's digestive system as a weapon of Ron's destruction and defend her freedom, _"_ stems from that Darkness, she falls under our jurisdiction. We can treat her Darkness and have her back in her home by New Years'."

The LIES that man could tell! With a smile on his face, no less!

She scanned the faces of those around her – significantly fewer than there used to be due to Adrian's efforts. That is, if she didn't count the additional Unspeakables that had every intention of stripping everyone in Treatment Room Three of their wands and memories. She felt Fleur's aura slide over hers as the Beauxbaton graduate clasped their hands together. The Veela's message was clear: _taken together or not at all_.

"She didn't do this!" Bill stated emphatically. A hint of amber accented the dark blue of his irises. Bill's wolf really didn't like Aeneas Hollins. "I can prove it!"

Horribly muffled, absurdly comical, barely discernable words came from Ron via Lavender's hairless labia. "She'th cra-thy! Lookh at wha' she didth to uth!"

Lavender only cried louder and alternated between begging for the Healers to do something and asking for her mother as more people from higher social circles witnessed her humiliation.

Surreptitiously, Draco and Harry switched places with Adrian and Marcus. The former enemies turned their backs just enough as to not be seen by all and sundry. Hermione caught a glimpse of a silvery Patronus darting up and through the ceiling. She could have sworn she heard either Harry or Draco, she wasn't sure which, cast an _Accio!_. The two men then 'relieved' Marcus and Adrian of holding the Hit Wizards at wand-point.

If Hermione were in a slightly less state of emotional upheaval, she _might_ concede that she _may_ have been acting a little irrationally. But who wouldn't? What engaged woman, one who was working diligently in her office when her three-day-old engagement ring suddenly disappeared from her finger, one who traveled to her fiancé's flat on a Tuesday afternoon, the same afternoon every week that said fiancé said that he spends at the grave of his dead brother, one who found her fiancé sinus-deep in the cunt of the Wizarding world's resident doorknob in the eighteen-to-twenty-five age group?

A softly scented hand stroked her hair. A gentle voice quietly calling her name and understanding eyes drew her away from events that were too fresh to properly process. That was the beauty of having a friend like Fleur. Her friend knew when to be righteously indignant as well as when to be nurturing and empathetic.

"Mr. Weasley, surely you understand-" Aeneas intoned condescendingly.

"CURSE BREAKER Weasley, Hollins," Bill's tone demanded the respect that the Head Unspeakable failed to deliver.

"Of course. My apologies, Curse Breaker Weasley." Hollins oozed congeniality. He directed his focus at the Healers and Hit Wizards. "As I was saying-"

It was Bill's turn to interrupt.

"As _I_ said, Hollins: my brother bought her a Goblin-made ring. All Goblin-made rings carry protection charms."

Bill paused only long enough to make sure he had everyone's undivided attention.

"Part of those protections includes protection from each other. Their agreement to become engaged, when Ron put that ring on her finger, when Hermione said, 'yes', to his proposal… When their skin touched with the ring between them, the enchantments activated." He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He looked at the Healers, the Hit Wizards, and Unspeakables with equal measure of irritability at having to explain something to all of them that was considered common knowledge.

"Thy didn'nth know!" Limited as he was by his tongue effectively stapled to Lavender's clit, Ron tried to profess, "I nether knew!"

Lavender tipped her head and did her best to make eye contact with Ron through her wide-spread thighs. "How couldn't you have known? You bought it for her?!"

"Thy didth'n't! Thy askth Bill; he goth'th for me tu gith tu 'Mione."

Team Hermione, most of the medical staff, and the female Hit Wizard snorted at Ron and Lavender's expense. Which didn't do anything to dull the pain of the fresh nail that punctured her proverbial heart when Hermione heard that Ron hadn't even picked out the ring he'd put on her finger.

Bill wasn't blind to Ron's unintentional admission effect on her. He was, though, going to everything he could to help her. "Don't even go there, Ronald. I told you exactly what giving a Goblin ring would entail." He caught her eye and tried to soften Ron's blow. "He really did want to get something worthy of you, Hermione. Don't ever doubt that. He just didn't know how to go about it so he asked me for my help. If I'd known that he was unfaithful there's no way I would've _ever_ –"

"Ron's always had a problem with that: faithfulness." Her head was suddenly too heavy for the words in her mouth. She looked to Harry, who despite his wand and body being battle-ready, matched her sleeve for heart. "I was just foolish enough to think that he'd never do that to me."

Her humiliation and embarrassment over this whole situation pushed more tears out of her eyes. To Draco, she gave a heart-shamed apology. "I'm so sorry. I didn't listen."

Draco didn't lower his wand from where it was pointed at the Hit Wizards but he did meet her gaze. Forgiveness for her tempered his frosty expression. "You weren't ready."

The Healer, the one who seemed to really have it in for her because she refused to be 'reasonable', proved that he had been paying attention. "Before we got side-tracked… Curse Breaker Weasley, you said, 'not entirely'. Which means she _is_ responsible. And since she's responsible, she has to fix them!"'

Fleur squeezed her hand again before all but sneering at the Healer.

Bill answered the single-minded Healer.

"Goblin magic is exactly that: _Goblin_ magic. It's not Wizards' magic. Ms Granger is, either subconsciously or consciously, responsible for 'how' the enchantments manifested. I say this clearly and succinctly: Hermione Granger did not cast the spell, curse, hex, or charm that resulted in the current state of Ronald Weasley and Lavender Brown. Her magic, fueled by her subconscious' choice of metaphor, and tethered to Goblin protection enchantments, resulted in the usage of her engagement ring as a means to punish Ron for cheating on her with Lavender Brown." Done expounding, Bill fixed his gaze firmly on Hollins. "Ms Granger had no way of preventing the protections embedded in the rings from responding to the infidelity committed by her fiancé or the protections from answering the call of her magic. A call that was triggered by the emotional distress from witnessing the wizard she'd agreed to marry copulating with another witch!"

"Curse Breaker Weasley has just substantiated my assertions, has he not?" The crocodile-at-the-watering-hole smile that creased Hollins face shifted the dynamic in the exam room as he looked again at the Healers and three Hit Wizards. "If this is what she did subconsciously, can you just imagine what she could do if she saw something truly horrific?"

George, the portable peanut gallery, was more than slightly incredulous. "Don't know what you use for a measuring stick, Hollins, but this," he again pointed to his naked-ass brother, "this is pretty horrific."

From across the room, Adrian agreed whole-heartedly. "This is, by far, one of the worse things I've ever seen – twice, now. Don't forget I was here when they were first brought in!"

Fleur's muttered, 'poor bastard', echoed Marcus' consoling clap to Adrian's shoulder.

Hollins didn't break his verbal stride or character. "This unfortunate, Darkened, witch needs help that St Mungo's is not equipped to provide." He nodded at the two miserable people on the gurney. "Only someone with Darkness inside them could do something like this."

Fleur sneered scathingly at both the pair on the hospital bed and Hollins with equal measures of contempt and loathing.

Hermione was familiar with the translation charm the Veela muttered. It was a spell Fleur used when she didn't want there to be any possibility of being misunderstood.

"You, Ronald, are so lucky that it was not I that got to you first. If you had done this to me? I'd've shoved that dead mouse," she pointed at the nearly inverted penis that swayed limply from between Ron's legs, "so far up your arse you'd have to open your mouth to take a piss!" She glared at Hollins. "Does that make me a Dark witch, Mr Hollins?"

Fleur was already one of her favorite, now even more so, people and well-liked within their circle of friends. She had a feeling that what Fleur had just said was going to be repeated for a long time to come.

She just prayed that she'd be around to hear it. Blaise had such a way of imitating people; it'd be a shame to miss his re-enactment.

For a moment, it looked as if Hollins' patience had reached its limit. He quickly recovered. He once more channeled Albus Dumbledore.

"Mrs. Weasley. While I would recommend you a Mind Healer for committing such an act on another witch or wizard, as revenge is never a healthy response to a personal trespass, I wouldn't classify such an act as Dark." He glanced pityingly at Hermione. "Ms Granger didn't take her revenge on _just_ Mr. Weasley. The fact that she also _victimized_ ," he let that particular word resonate, "Ms. Brown, demonstrates her sociopathic inclinations. And her sociopathic inclinations stem from her untreated Darkness. Of which we, at the Department of Mysteries, are well-equipped to treat. Ms Granger contributed to saving the Wizarding World as we know it. It is our moral obligation and professional privilege to save Ms Granger from herself."

If Hermione were of a lesser mind, she'd almost believe the man as he used a perverted circle of logic to take her away.

Healer Number Two glanced around the room. The man was clearly taking in every variable: the two linked mouth-to-vulva, four wizards who'd entered together, two of which had their wands pointed at three Hit Wizards, the half-dozen hooded Unspeakables, the two red-heads who stood shoulder-to-shoulder as brothers should, the experienced hospital Security persons, and the Veela who stood with wand-in-hand alongside the witch at the center of the controversy.

"So – to clarify: Ms. Granger is the reason why Mr. Weasley and Ms. Brown have been so publicly humiliated? And, this…situation…won't resolve itself until Ms. Granger either releases the enchantments that brought this about or Mr. Weasley makes some sort of additional reparations for his infidelity?"

They were humiliated? Ron and Lavender? What about her? How was them, Won-Won and Lav-Lav, fucking each other every Tuesday afternoon – at the very least – her fault?! How 'reasonable' would that fucking Healer be, if he found his newly-minted fiancé tongue-deep in some other wizard's cunt!? Didn't they know that it was her, the cheat-ee, who'd made the Portkey that transported the Ron and Lavender to St Mungo's? That, despite the tears of anger that streamed down her face, she was enthusiastically _Incendio!_ -ing anything and everything that belonged to Ron when St Mungo's back-traced her Portkey and sent someone to collect her? No. No way. No way in _hell_ was that fair! Ron and Lavender were on their own! Those fucking Healers wanted mercy? From her? For Ron and Lavender? Ron'd have to volunteer to slice off his own dick, toss it into a crematorium himself, add the resulting ashes to his morning tea for the rest of his miserable life while living with an order of Snape-trained nuns, nuns dedicated to helping emotionally and physically battered girls and women overcome–

"Hermione – STOP! For the love of Merlin, don't say another word!" Harry's voice cut through the sudden buzzing that drowned out all her senses.

Morgana's. Bleeding. Ears…. Did she just say all that out loud?

Judging from the way Marcus preened at the extent of her vindictiveness, Adrian and George looking like they wanted to carry her off and fuck the Ron out of her, the 'that's why she's my best girlfriend' approval emanating from Fleur, that Bill and Harry just told her with their fight-until-the-end defensive stances that she was, at the moment, her own worst enemy, and Draco projecting a perfectly blended combination of all of them along with the intention of fucking her until she never again saw the light of day, she had.

She buried her fingers deeply in her hair and tugged hard. "Why didn't you – any of you – stop me!"

"I didn't stop you because I was figuring out the logistics."

George, of course it would have to be George, who else would – no, wait! This time, it wasn't George!

"You know: how dull would you want the knife to be for the prick-ectomy, locating an order of nuns, taking Snape to the nuns to train them – which he'd offer to do, you know he would. Then I got side-tracked thinking that Snape would probably suggest that Weasley be made to use a four-sided stirring rod instead of a knife. Escorting Weasley to Madam Malkin so that he can be properly fitted for dick-less pants and trousers..."

Marcus' grin momentarily spread even wider as very few were able to fully stifle their sniggers when he spoke so matter-of-factly about dick-less pants and trousers.

"Then I thought: while we're at Malkins, I suppose it would be the gentlemanly thing to pick up some wide-crotch knickers for Brown; she won't be able to wear anything skimpier than granny-panties with a size-five engagement ring dangling from her cunt. Then I got side-tracked with the thought that Brown, with whatever bit of Weasley's tongue that'll be still attached to that engagement ring, she'd be more hung than Weasley ever was! That led me back to thinking of Weasley, and that led me to thinking about all the different ways of actually getting Weasley to the nuns... "

Marcus' confessions made her want to hug the burly wizard and bake him a batch of lemon bars.

Hollins, though, pounced on her emotional outburst and held it up as 'just cause'.

"Ms Granger – as witnessed by these wizards, witches, and professionals in their fields, I am hereby taking you into custody until such a time that you prove to be no longer a danger to yourself or others!"

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	7. Chapter 7

_Still At St Mungo's..._

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Draco tapped into the bit of Darkness that came with being a Malfoy.

Draco felt his magic surge into his aura as it Darkened. He let the greyness rise within him and flow to the tip of his wand. There was little he wouldn't do to keep Granger safe and untouched. He knew the stakes: if Hollins got a hold of her, either here at the hospital or if he kidnapped her from a holding cell at the DMLE, he and his would never see her again. The Malfoy men could utilize every aspect of their magical natures, tear at the building with their bare hands, paw through memories of those suspected of knowing how to reach her, and they'd still fail to recover their witch.

The best plans were simplest plans: Hollins couldn't take what he couldn't touch.

Adrian magically propelled the Weasley and Brown side-show out of their way.

Bill Weasley stood behind and to the right of his wife, his wand extended over the Veela's shoulder.

Fleur Weasley stepped forward and tucked Granger between her and her husband; one hand held her wand at-the-ready, her other palm lightly bounced one of her signature fireballs.

George Weasley and Marcus formed the ultimate Chaser-Beater team as the two paired-up.

Potter's magic crackled from the center of his chest to the tip of his outstretched wand. From his place in front of the French witch, the man was prepared to make sure Hollins never so much as breathed on Granger.

Adrian's wand was still in his hand from when he'd _Expulso_ 'd the slag and her cuckold. Eyes narrowed as his aim was now focused on the Hit Wizards, Unspeakables, and Security personnel who were moving into siege position. In moments like this, as Adrian's training gave him the ability to deftly move into position to the left of the Veela, there was no doubt as to why Riddle sought the Pucey family as an ally.

Draco moved alongside Potter.

That is – until a Stunner from one of the Security people threw him against the far wall.

"Get her down!"

Potter – ordering the French witch to pull Granger to the floor. The two witches immediately crouched, the Veela with her arm around Granger's shoulders.

Slightly dazed, Draco sluggishly pushed himself to his feet via his knees. A mild reviving spell, courtesy of Bill Weasley, cleared his head and steadied his body.

Streaks of different colors, each color a different spell, flew across the enclosed space.

Draco had long-done the math. They were out-numbered by nearly seven wands. That didn't mean they were going to lose. They didn't have to win, either. He and the rest of Granger's defenders just had to make sure they held-out until reinforcements arrived.

Draco drew on his magic and summoned a powerful _Somnus_ spell. He flung it across the room. The man crumpled immediately, taking a wheeled trolley filled with medical instruments with him. The clatter punctuated the sounds of the spells being called out around him. He'd been aiming for Hollins but the rat-bastard tugged on the collar of the man nearest him and put the Hit Wizard directly in the path of Draco's spell.

"Take down Potter, Malfoy and the Lycan!"

Hollins – giving orders to take out the strongest first.

Two hooded Unspeakables withdrew something long, sharp, and silver from inside their robes. They charged at the oldest Weasley brother.

"Flint! Look to Weasley!" Draco delegated the Curse-breaker's defense to Marcus because what he'd Accio'd was two seconds from landing in his hand.

Marcus, all shoulders, chest, and biceps, barreled into the incoming Unspeakables and rammed them hard. The three of them toppled to the floor. Lighter on his feet than he looked, Marcus righted himself and with Adrian at his side, the two met them head-on when the Unspeakables re-gained their feet.

The second tallest of them, George, looked at Draco when Draco called out to him. "Catch!"

In a clean arch, a length of wood left Draco's hand and was snatched out the air by the one-eared wizard.

Without wasting a movement, George pivoted toward Granger. He tossed what he'd just caught into her open hand: her wand. The wand that Draco had Summoned while Hollins debated the curse-breaker.

The two Healers joined the ranks of Hit Wizards, the Unspeakables, and Security in the melee.

Granger with a wand, though, tipped the odds in Draco's favor.

The witch rose to her feet, her face still wet with tears that Hollins would pay dearly for causing. Arm close to her body, bright flashes of tangerine-colored light pulsed from the tip of her wand. Her other hand was busy as well, as non-verbal spells flew from her outstretch palm.

Potter grappled wand-hand to wand-hand with a much heftier Hit Wizard. From one of his wrists dangled a partially attached magical restraint. There was no way in the seven hells that Potter was going to allow the Hit Wizard finish shackling him. A clean uppercut to the Hit Wizard's mid-section followed by a right-cross to the jaw ended the wrestling match. Potter, face flushed and breathing heavily, all but snarled as he turned to help Adrian as Adrian faced both the female Hit Wizard and a hospital Security guard.

Bodies collided with walls. Wands were knocked from hands. Triage supplies skidded across the floor. Droplets of blood from cuts and gashes spotted shirts and sleeves. Sweat irritated eyes and dribbled down backs and along arms.

From where he stood, trading Stunners with two Security wizards, Draco couldn't do anything to prevent Hollins getting the drop on George. The tallest Weasley never saw the spell that blew him out of the triage room, across the corridor, and slammed his head and shoulders into the plastered wall.

Draco tightened their ranks. A well-placed _Expelliarmus!_ disarmed and rendered another Security wizard unconscious. Draco brought up his arm and he fixed another Unspeakable in his sights.

Granger's accuracy took down a security guard who'd had his wand pointed at Marcus' back. Without pausing, she then dropped down, balanced on the balls of her feet, she tapped the Veela and pointed. Together, they fired an _Incendio!_ at each of the trouser-cuffs of Healer One. The man stopped in mid-spell to hop from one foot to the other as he patted his hands at the smoldering fabric. A quick push from Adrian sent the man into the gurney that still carried Brown and Weasley. The man smacked his head against the framework of the mobile bed and rolled into a space between a filing cabinet and the wall. He nodded weakly when Adrian ordered the man to, "Don't move – be _reasonable_."

Too close to use his wand, the curse-breaker closed his fist and jabbed at the nearest Unspeakable's kidney. As he drew back his other arm to pummel the man again, one of Hollins' minions _Accio_ 'd a squat brown bottle from where it rolled on the floor. Guided by the minion's wand, the bottle lifted and collided brutally with Bill Weasley's cheekbone. The potion coated the side of his face and leeched into the cuts made by the breaking glass. Whatever the potion was, it made the oldest Weasley sibling's more-amber-than-blue eyes roll closed before he slumped to the floor.

Protective of her mate but committed to helping her friend, Draco wanted to throttle Granger when the witch told her best female friend to, "Go! Help Bill!"

The Veela crawled to her husband. She pressed two fingers to his throat. The murderous glint in her eye meant that the wizard who married her still lived but vengeance would be hers. She pushed herself to her feet. Her arm extended, she never saw the female Hit Wizard bypass Potter, come up alongside her and twist the French witch's arm behind her back. The Veela didn't have time to bare her teeth, let alone verbalize an offensive spell, before her other arm was also wrenched behind her back. A set of magical restraints locked around each of the witch's wrists. A slew of expletives in both French and English flowed out the Veela's mouth as she struggled to free herself.

Draco realized only too late Hollins plan. The Head Unspeakable had said one thing to his personnel but, in fact, executed something entirely different!

With both Weasleys and the Weasley-by-marriage incapacitated, there was a brief, brief, moment where for one instant, Granger was unprotected.

Hollins moved faster than Draco thought possible!

Situated near the open door of the exam room, the Unspeakable extended his wand-arm and fired an _Accio!_ – at Granger!

Draco flexed his magic. He drew on power behind his wand, the heritage imbedded in the name and family Malfoy, and the vow of devotion that he and his made to Granger, and threw forward his hand. The witch, completely caught unawares, who was being magically dragged from her protective pocket towards Hollins, came to an immediate stop.

Hollins cocked his head to the side, almost more intrigued than puzzled as to why his spell failed to bring Granger within his reach. "Interesting, young Malfoy. I'm going enjoy investigating you further."

His concentration unshakable, Draco drew his free hand underneath his nose, effectively wiping away the sweat that beaded his lip. Adrian, Marcus, and Potter lined up alongside him. Behind them, Bill Weasley lay sprawled on the hospital room floor.

Like an opposing rugby team taking their places, the remaining Unspeakables, the lone Hit Wizard frog-marching the seething Veela, and the Security guards collected themselves and made for the proverbial line of scrimmage.

" _ACCIO_!"

Hollins lifted his wand, his arm vibrating with magical output, he recast his spell. A pulse of bright light made everyone's pupils into pin-points. Granger's entire body jerked viciously, caught in a magical tug-of-war.

"I said, 'no'!" Draco channeled more of his magic down his arm and out of the tip of his wand.

Potter, Adrian, and Marcus, now back-to-back around him but not impeding his line-of-sight, squared their shoulders, softened their knees and wrists, and locked their wand-arms at the elbows.

Their fight was his fight.

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	8. Chapter 8

_Still at St Mungo's..._

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* * *

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 _Happy Solstice to me… Happy Solstice to me…_

Hollins, with a song in his heart and a nearly unconscious Granger in-tow and only three support personnel still viable, made for the lifts.

He'd won.

The Malfoy heir and Granger's friends were either magically bound or out-cold. They had fought well. Almost too well; if it weren't for the concussion spell he'd unleashed there was a very real possibility that he would've lost the skirmish. The reservoirs of power within Potter and the youngest Malfoy… if there were a way for him to study them, he would. But, he was happy to finally have the long-elusive Muggleborn. Hermione Granger was the ultimate prize, the best Yule gift. With proper training, or even minimal training considering the fact that she was going to fight him every day for the rest of her professional life, what she would accomplish with a career with the Department of Mysteries would be regaled and expounded upon for generations.

A battered and magically exhausted Security guard pressed the call buttons for all three lifts. Not taking any chances, Hollins tugged at the spell-shocked witch so that she stood in front of him. His arm came up and from hip to opposite shoulder she was effectively pressed against him.

Three chimes, one for each of the lifts, sounded.

Slightly out of synch, three sets of doors parted.

For a split second, the three wizards inside the middle lift stared at Hollins, the witch he held, and the three remaining more-worse-for-wear support personnel. Hollins didn't spare so much as an eyelash for whoever stood in the other two lifts.

Hollins, for his part, didn't cringe due to the three who now stood between him and the only way off of the fourth floor of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.

Immediately, three different wands pointed at his person. Calculating his next, best, move, Hollins pulled Granger even closer to his body. He'd done the work to capture the witch. Those three wizards weren't going to take what he'd won almost-fairly and almost-squarely. With some careful footwork, he walked both of them backwards at the same pace as the three wizards who were advancing towards him and his prize.

"Let." Fierce and fearsome, Severus Snape cocked his long ebony wand at Hollins.

"Her." Eyes first on Granger then fixed on the wizard who held her, and every bit the Death Eater he'd been trained to be, Lucius Malfoy purred lethally down the thirteen inches of well-whittled wood he held level with Hollins' chest.

"Go – _right now_."

Hollins, who now knew he didn't stand a chance of leaving with the witch he'd fought so hard to kidnap, somehow found the ability to scoff at the best-kept secret of the Second Wizarding War and the number one reason why Hermione Granger was at the top of the Fetch List.

Abraxas Malfoy, resurrected on the Eve of Beltane in 1997 by a seventeen year-old witch, had come out of seclusion.

"You _dare_ to touch a Malfoy?"

Older than Draco but physically younger than Lucius, Abraxas Malfoy was easily the most dangerous Malfoy of them all. His rowan wand, powered by a core plucked from the forelock of a Thestral, was unmatched. As was his malcontent that Hollins had laid a hand on the witch he and his cherished above all others and had undoubtedly caused the tears that stained her face.

"You will release her."

"It would be most… _unwise_ …if he had to repeat himself." Severus all but dared Hollins not to release the witch so that they could deal with the uncouth Unspeakable as _they_ saw fit rather than be restricted by what the Wizengamot defined as 'reasonable force'.

Lucius withdrew a scroll from an inside pocket of his great-cloak. With unrestrained satisfaction, he brandished the wax-sealed tube of parchment. He didn't need to read it to recite the legalese.

"This is a cease-and-desist order. Signed, specifically targeting your charter, mandates, and liberties as an Unspeakable, Hollins. Should you fail to comply, you will be remanded into custody until such a time that a tribunal can be convened and your actions evaluated." He looked beyond Hollins. The corridor was uncharacteristically empty: no bustling orderlies, no Healers, no patients awaiting treatment or receiving their diagnosis. An elegant twist of his wrist freed his wand from his walking stick. "You will tell me what you have done to my son."

Lucius, along with Abraxas and Severus, pried open the lid that capped their Darkness. From the left and right lifts, Tiernan Flint and Caeden Pucey, captains of the Malfoy legal and enforcement teams, joined the line-up of Malfoy men.

Outnumbered, Hollins had two choices. He could either bluff his way out of this stand-off or he could strong arm his way out of this stand-off.

A flash of insight brought a smirk to his face and an awareness of a third option: a perfect blend of a clever bluff and the satisfaction in successfully strong-arming a trio of some of the most powerful wizards in Britain. If he did this just right, Hollins could walk out of St Mungo's with a second prize nearly equal to Hermione Granger.

Wand in hand, Hollins pressed the tip of it firmly against the witch's temple. "What will you give me for her?" He glared at each of the men fanned out around him. "You obviously have me outnumbered, yet I have something that you want. So, this is where we enter into negotiations." He made sure not to sound overly confident but definitively in-control. "I can release her. The question is: do I give her back to you as she is or as a victim of a viciously applied, irreparable, Obliviation? An Obliviate that would strip her of everything and leave her with no chance of relearning how to walk, talk, read, write, or take care of herself in every possibly way?"

Abraxas raised is hand, halting the forward advance of Tiernan and Caeden. "Hollins isn't finished."

As he let his promise sink in, Hollins appreciated the perceptiveness of the Malfoy Pater. "You're correct." To Lucius, he was matter-of-fact, neither gloating over nor apologetic for his actions. "Your son is currently on his knees, bound hand-to-feet, and will remain so until I release him."

The arm that crossed the length of Granger's body shifted slightly. With a twist of his wrist, Hollins cupped the witch's neck and forced her to look at her rescue party. His wand remained at her temple. "You say this witch is a Malfoy?"

"She is." Lucius confirmed the stake he and his had claimed for witch.

"Then what I propose is this: a Malfoy in addition to a Malfoy." He evaluated the men who faced him. There was another who'd be a suitable replacement for the witch. "From a purely academic stand-point, I'd also accept Severus Snape or Harry Potter in lieu of Draco, Lucius or Abraxas Malfoy."

"You will NOT take my intended, my father, my son or my wand-brother, Hollins." Lucius' polished drawl was never so infused with raw wrath. "Nor will you take from my intended those she holds closest to her heart, including Harry Potter."

"You had been given the opportunity to step away with dignity. You have now…squandered…that opportunity." Severus' cold decree rang with the finality of a judgment.

Hollins wasn't surprised that none of the wizards accepted his ultimatum. That was the purpose of negotiations: counter-offers exchanged until an equitable bargain is struck.

A dazed and groggy Granger found her voice. She squinted at the Malfoys and those sworn to them as if the overhead lighting was overly bright for her to see properly. "You came for me."

"We'd always come for you. You are ours as we are yours."

Had this exchange taken place in private, Hollins would expect Abraxas to embrace the witch after such a succinct declaration of commitment. As it was, she was in his arms, not the arms of a Malfoy. It was his wand that could scramble her brains and her magic and render both unusable and inaccessible for the rest of her life.

"Abraxas?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so s'ssorry… Ron – he cheated on me. A lot. You warned me; Lucius, Draco, Sev'rus too. Should'a listened; was stubborn. Didn't, wouldn't, believe… Tell Draco: I'm sorry." Fresh tears streamed down her face and over the back of Hollins' hand as he still held her neck in a grip tight enough to leave bruises. "Don't d'serve you…"

Hollins felt the first sensations of triumph thrum under his skin. Granger's little confession was more than he could hope for! His one-two combination of bluff-and-strong-arming was paying off! Granger would either surrender herself out of guilt and a warped sense of cause-and-effect or the Malfoys would trip over themselves in offering to take her place as a means to reassure her that she was indeed forgiven and desired.

"Lucius?"

"Milady?"

The witch under his chin was barely able to hold herself up; how she found the means to keep speaking was one of the things Hollins was looking forward to discovering once he got her back to the Department's testing facilities.

"Don't let Hollins win."

Lucius, Severus and Abraxas all but puffed out their chests. Their pride in the bravery of their witch filled the corridor.

Equally unexpected was the point of a wand digging into the base of his skull.

"A Malfoy never loses." Abraxas holstered his wand. Severus and Lucius did not. "Isn't that correct, Draco?"

"My grandfather told you to release her." A large male hand, a hand wearing a Malfoy signet ring, plucked Hollins' wand from where it was pressed against Granger's temple.

Hollins relaxed his grip on Granger's neck and torso.

"That is the first 'smart' thing I've seen you do since you first began your…earnest pursuit of our witch." Abraxas looked down his nose at the defeated Unspeakable.

No longer held up by Hollins brute strength and unable to support herself, Hermione's knees folded. Before she could reach the ground, Severus pointed his ebony wand at her. Focused on maintaining his silent _Leviosa_ , he floated the unconscious witch to an awaiting Lucius. The middle Malfoy accepted the witch with gentleness the belied the fearsomeness he'd fixed on the Head Unspeakable. Abraxas, for his part, caressed her slack face with an open hand. Only those closest to them could see the faint blue glow that emanated from his palm as he used Malfoy family magic to assess the young witch. With a nod to his son, wand-son, and grandson, Abraxas confirmed that the next Malfoy bride had succumbed to magical and physical exhaustion.

Draco wasn't done with Hollins.

"Me and mine have bested you on every level. My father has seen to it that your career has finished, Hollins. Tiernan Flint will seek – and win – punitive damages the likes of which would make a Goblin pity you. Your three remaining personnel are now in the custody of Caeden Pucey. I, for one, am looking forward to watching you take the full brunt of my Pater's retribution for the wrongs you have dealt his – our – Family."

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	9. Chapter 9

_Shortly Thereafter..._

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Only a select few, aside from Severus Snape, the Malfoy Men, and Harry Potter witnessed the trial of Aeneas Hollins.

That didn't stop word from spreading about the once most unfettered Unspeakable's reassignment within the Department of Mysteries.

It was deemed that since Hollins emulated Dumbledore so well, then Hollins should be able to pursue the one area of study Dumbledore hadn't explored: dragon dung. Hollins' sentence? A lifetime – literally – of identifying and proving twelve distinct, previously undiscovered, uses for dragon shite for each specific breed of dragon. Hollins could not retire, quit, or ask for a transfer to another division until he completed his task. Of which, he would have to harvest himself and pay – out of his own pocket – for the 'raw materials' for his life's work.

Of course the Goblins, at Bill and Fleur's instigation, gave the disgraced Unspeakable a generous discount – for every metric ton he harvested and transported, a sickle would be subtracted from his overall bill.

To prove that 'justice is impersonal', the Malfoys arranged for Hollins to have his very own trowel with which to collect his 'samples'.

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	10. Chapter 10

_Twenty-four months later…. December 2005_

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Closed To The Public – that's what the sign read on the gate of Kensington Gardens on December 21st.

The busy and popular destination was wrapped in Muggle-repelling and warming charms as guests for the Granger-Malfoys wedding assembled in the December sunshine. Alternating male-to-female, sitting in the chairs closest to the central aisle, sat the Viper Five and the Gryffindor Seven.

Magically grown garlands of holiday greenery led to fragrantly adorned bowers constructed of boughs of wood sacred to the Old Ones canopied the seating arrangements. The dais, where the bride and grooms would bind themselves to each other, stood ready.

A bride, dressed in ceremonial linens, appeared at the top of the central aisle. All heads, including the three who stood on the dais, turned to look at her.

Beside her, Severus Snape, dressed in a similar fashion as to honor the Old Ones as well as the witch beside him, clapped a hand over hers as he escorted her to where his wand-brother, godson, and wand-father stood. On front of them, Fleur Weasley stode with an even, elegant gait. Behind them, in an ever protective phalanx, were Harry Potter, Marcus Flint, and Adrian Pucey.

The bride carried a four-wick pillar candle, of which one wick was already lit.

After all that had happened, and two years of healing and mutual exploration of herself and the men who had saved her as much as she had saved them, Hermione Granger was prepared to add the flames of Abraxus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy to her life.

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I hope you enjoyed this story!

THANK YOU, for reading!

Maevenly


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